Viridian Gate Online: Crimson Alliance: A litRPG Adventure
Author: J.A. Hunter
Date: 2017-02-24 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction; Science Fiction; Magic; Adventure; Role Playing Games; Post Apocalyptic; Action; dragons
Description: October, 2042 Three days ago, Jack Mitchel saved his life. By dying. He dodged a world-ending bullet-in the form of an extinction-level asteroid cannonballing toward Earth-by successfully uploading his mind into the brand-new, ultra-immersive, fantasy-based VRMMORPG, Viridian Gate Online. Unfortunately, he's also stumbled headlong into a secret conspiracy that will transform V.G.O. into a new feudal dark age. Jack expected to live out his new fantasy life in peace, but now he and his misfit crew of rebels are the only ones preventing a tyrant emperor and his regime from taking power. Thankfull
Publisher: Independently published
Rights: James A Hunter & Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

Contents

Summary

ONE: Waiting Game

TWO: Shadow Portal

THREE: Void Terrors

FOUR: Ore Grind

FIVE: Ancient Tome

SIX: Void Drake

SEVEN: Contest of Wills

EIGHT: Good News

NINE: Reunion

TEN: Wanted

ELEVEN: The Keep

TWELVE: Guardians

THIRTEEN: Crimson Alliance

FOURTEEN: Initiate Tutorial

FIFTEEN: Faction Skills

SIXTEEN: The End Has Come

SEVENTEEN: Strategy

EIGHTEEN: Worthy Foe

NINETEEN: Spider’s Lair

TWENTY: Wheeling and Dealing

TWENTY-ONE: Debuff, Death

TWENTY-TWO: Reports, Reports, Reports

TWENTY-THREE: Changes

TWENTY-FOUR: Thief in the Night

TWENTY-FIVE: The Weaponeer

TWENTY-SIX: Plague Tunnels

TWENTY-SEVEN: Gentleman Georgie

TWENTY-EIGHT: Bloodletting

TWENTY-NINE: Mop Up

THIRTY: Final Preparations

THIRTY-ONE: Mount Up

THIRTY-TWO: Light it Up

THIRTY-THREE: Dogfight

THIRTY-FOUR: Boss Battle

THIRTY-FIVE: Peace Offering

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

About the Author

Dedication

Special Thanks

Copyright

Summary

October, 2042

Three days ago, Jack Mitchel saved his life. By dying.

He dodged a world-ending bullet—in the form of an extinction-level asteroid cannonballing toward Earth—by successfully uploading his mind into the brand-new, ultra-immersive, fantasy-based VRMMORPG, Viridian Gate Online. Unfortunately, he’s also stumbled headlong into a secret conspiracy that will transform V.G.O. into a new feudal dark age.

Jack expected to live out his new fantasy life in peace, but now he and his misfit crew of rebels are the only ones preventing a tyrant emperor and his regime from taking power. Thankfully, everything isn’t quite as hopeless as it seems—Jack has a plan. Sort of. With only a handful of supporters, he’s going to get the jump on the bloodthirsty empire by snatching one of their key cities right from underneath their noses. In order to pull off the impossible, however, Jack’s going to have to develop his formidable Shadowmancer powers, raid some ridiculous dungeons, and make some shady allies—allies who may be more dangerous than the empire itself.

ONE:

Waiting Game

I laid into the swamp oak with the gleaming blade of a woodsman’s axe, watching the groove in the trunk grow ever-wider as chips of wood cartwheeled through the air. I pulled the axe away and swung again, my shoulders burning, my hands raw—even with gloves on—sending one more mighty blow into the gnarled swamp wood. The tree wobbled, teetering for a moment, unsure how it was going to fall, before finally keeling over with a whip-crack of snapping wood. “Timber!” I shouted, quickly backtracking. The felled tree slammed into the ground, sending a quiver up into my achy feet.

I paused, dropped the axe, then ran the back of my hand across my forehead, wiping away a trail of sweat threatening to drip into my eyes.

“This is the worst, Jack,” Cutter muttered, tossing his axe to the vegetation-strewn floor before ambling over to me, drawing a canteen from his bag. He drank with great noisy glugs, clear water splashing down his chin and onto his rough tunic. After almost a solid minute, he pulled his face away and held the flask out to me. I grimaced, eyeing the spit-covered nozzle, and shook my head. He shrugged, killed the remaining water, then stowed the bottle back in his pack. “Suit yourself, friend,” he said, before uttering a horrific belch that left my hair standing on end.

“But seriously, Jack. We’ve been chopping trees and building stupid guard towers for four days. Four. Bloody. Days. Working our hands to the bone whilst mosquitos turn us into banquet meals. How much longer do you plan to keep this up, eh?” A scowl turned his lips down as his face darkened. “Because I signed up for adventure, mead, and piles of easy gold, Jack. Piles of gold. Do you know how much gold I’ve turned up chopping down trees?” He paused, letting the obviously rhetorical question linger in the air. “Zero, Jack.” He held up his hand, fingers curved into a big fat “O.”

I sighed, pulled my own water flask from my pack, and took a drink to buy some time while I thought. The water slipped down my parched throat and hit my belly with a cool splash. After a beat, I slopped a little water into my palm and doused my face—anything to beat back the crushing heat. And it was hot in the Storme Marshes. Worse than summer in inland California, and the humidity left me feeling constantly sticky and gross. “Just until Abby gets here,” I finally said, screwing the lid of my flask back in place.

He rolled his eyes. “Look, Jack, I know you’ve got a thing for her, but just use the stupid Faction Seal already. That seal is practically a license to conjure gold from the air. We could be kings, Jack. True, we’d be kings in this backward mudhole, but even in backward mudholes, kings aren’t expected to cut down trees like common laborers. I want you to close your eyes and picture beautiful women surrounding us, feeding us exotic fruit while we lounge in a tub full of gold marks. Sound good, eh? That could be us, Jack. Storme Marsh kings.”

“We’re not gonna use it until we have a chance to talk with Abby,” I said again, voice firm with resolve. “This seal belongs to her just as much as it belongs to me, and I’m not going to stab her in the back. Besides, unlike you, I’m not interested in sitting around in a tub of gold. I like to work.”

“How do we even know this Osmark bloke hasn’t already gotten to her, eh?” he asked, sidestepping my objections. “You ever think ’bout that? It’s been almost a week since she sent you that message about going to Alaunhylles. If she’s been taken prisoner, how long before she gives us up? Rats on us? And believe you me, if they have her, and really put the screws to her, she’ll rat. Everyone talks under the torturer’s blade, Jack. Everyone. Can we really afford to wait around much longer?”

“We’re going to give her more time,” I replied, feeling a tendril of unease creep up from my gut. I didn’t want to admit it, but I’d been thinking a lot about Abby’s fate. In her PM, she’d mentioned going dark for a few days—and Cutter was right, it had been a week. I’d been trying to get ahold of her twice a day, every day since I’d found out about the Faction Seal, with no success. Worse, we were only two days away from asteroid-impact back IRL, which meant Osmark and his goons would be making their play soon, if they hadn’t already. I rudely shoved the uncertain thoughts away.

I needed to talk with Abby. She was smart. Smarter than me. All I wanted was to keep my head down and live my new life as drama-free as possible. International politics and multimillion-dollar conspiracies weren’t for me, and I wasn’t ready to be some sort of V.G.O. king. Abby would know what to do, though. She’d have a plan.

Cutter frowned and rubbed at his temple as though my stubbornness were actually giving him a migraine. “Jack, don’t be a moron. Listen, I understand you want to be loyal to your ‘friend.’” He used air quotes, as if he didn’t actually believe friends existed. “Gods know I wouldn’t do that,” he continued. “I always put myself first, but I can understand why you would do that. But, let’s not forget you have a mandate from a goddess to start your own faction. How could Abby possibly be mad at you, when a literal divine being appeared and told you to use the bloody thing? That’s just common sense, you stubborn dirt-clod.”

“No, Cutter,” I replied flatly. “I don’t care what Sophia—or whatever her name really is—says. One, I don’t hang my friends out to dry, and two, I’m not sure I trust her. She openly admitted she wants to use us as pawns, and I’m not interested in exchanging one dictator for another. Besides, it doesn’t even make sense to use this thing yet. I understand physical labor doesn’t exactly appeal to you, but do you really think I’m just going to turn myself into a feudal land baron and no one’s gonna notice?”

He frowned and ran a hand through his dirty blond locks. “Ah yep,” he finally said with a nod. “That’s pretty much how I picture things going. You become faction boss, and the skies will part and rain gold coins down on our heads in a deluge of wealth.” He smiled, eyes hazy and distant as though envisioning the downpour.

“You’re smarter than that, Cutter. Just think about it,” I said, tapping one finger at my temple. “Once we activate that thing, it’s going to be like setting a bonfire as big as a mountain, letting Osmark know exactly where we are and what we’ve done. And then? Then they’re going to come for us. And not just them: anyone who catches a whiff of easy money is going to flock to our doorstep with their hands out. So, it makes sense to get our ducks in a row—to get Yunnam as ready as we can and come up with a solid plan—before we go and do something reckless.”

“Ducks in a row—I’ve always wondered where that saying came from,” Cutter mused, rubbing at the five o’clock shadow adorning his chin. After a moment, he threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine, Jack. Fine. I guess your stupid code of ethics and your stupid logic make a sort of twisted sense. But when we do form a faction, I expect to be compensated handsomely for my unwavering loyalty. I’m thinking Grand High King of the Thieves, eh? Maybe you could get me a crown made of so much gold it’ll hurt my neck to wear. I think I’d like that.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes. He was something else. “Just get back to work, Cutter. This new outer wall isn’t going to build itself,” I said, snatching my axe from the ground, then headed over to the next tree that needed to come down. The palisade encircling Yunnam proper consisted of a simple wall of sharpened logs, about fifteen feet high. Not terrible, but nothing even close to the kind of defenses Rowanheath boasted. And even Rowanheath had fallen to the Ever-Victorious Viridian Empire. Chief Kolle had explained that the jungle itself—with its marshy waters and myriad of deadly beasts—was actually Yunnam’s best line of defense, but in my opinion we still needed to do better.

So, after I’d discussed my ideas and concerns with the chief, the town had elected to build a sturdier, secondary wall out of the black swamp rock so prevalent to the area. But first, we needed to clear the trees back.

I threw my weight behind the axe, carving into another trunk, this one belonging to a twisted weeping willow.

“Hold up,” Cutter hollered, jerking a thumb toward something behind me.

I lowered my axe and turned to find Chief Kolle and his mask-wearing daughter, Amara, striding toward us, skittering along the outside of the palisade.

I offered the chief a hesitant, tired smile, then headed over, Cutter trailing behind me.

“Hey, Chief,” I said with a wave. “What brings you out here? Inspecting the progress?”

“Looking for you, actually,” he replied with a nod, “though, I do have to say things are coming along nicely. You’re keeping our craftsman and builders busy, but they’ve got a sizeable portion of the outer wall already done on the other side. We’ll need more rock and spider webbing soon, but if we keep up at this rate, we’ll have the new wall up in two weeks’ time. A little longer to get the guard towers in place.” He rocked idly on his heels. “What I really came to talk to you about is your training,” he said after a pause.

“My training?” I asked with a frown. “What training?”

He guffawed and crossed his beef-slab arms. “Grim Jack, just because you passed your initiation ordeal doesn’t mean you know everything there is to know about being Maa-Tál. True, you achieved your specialization as a Shadowmancer much quicker than most, but you still have more to learn. Much more. Not to mention, you have an obligation to the Dark Conclave and the Shadow Pantheon. You may be a future faction ruler, Jack, but for now, you’re also the lowliest member of our order, and I’ve got a job for you to do. Something to get you out, practicing your skills, and, more importantly, something to take your mind off this missing friend of yours. This”—he uncrossed his arms and twirled one hand in the air—“this Abby you keep talking about.”

“But the wall,” I replied weakly, pointing at the jagged line of trees still waiting to be cut.

“Grim Jack,” he said, “if you’re going to lead, it’s important to learn you can’t do everything on your own. You need to be able to delegate responsibility. We have many hands capable of chopping down a tree or moving around a pile of swamp rock. We have far fewer who can harness the Umbra and conjure the power of shadow. So”—he paused thoughtfully—“where do you think you are most needed?”

I grumbled, glowered, shuffled back and forth on anxious feet, then stole a quick look at Cutter—a giant, smug smile nearly split his face in half.

“Okay,” I finally said, resigned. “I guess my Shadowmancer duties are more important.”

“No,” the chief replied sternly. “Not more important. Just different. As a leader, you must learn that every part is equally important, and every job must be done just so, or things fall apart. Even the greatest general needs men to command, and even the sturdiest wall will fall if built improperly. Now, as to your assignment. In order to better defend Yunnam, I want to construct Arcane Shadow Cannons on each of the guard towers. They’re powerful weapons which can launch deadly balls of shadow energy at any hostile force seeking to harm our land. Building them, however, requires a specialized mineral called Raw Darkshard Ore.

“Not far from here,” he said, “there is an old mineshaft abundant with the material we so desperately require. An ancient remnant from the bygone days of the Nangkri Dynasty, resting in the hills less than a half a day’s walk from here,” he said, pointing due west.

“Seriously?” I held up a hand to stop him. “For my initiation ordeal, you had me track down and kill a nearly indestructible forest giantess, and now you’re sending me on an ingredient gathering quest? An ore grind?” I asked incredulously.

The chief shot me a sly smile. “As I said, there are no unimportant jobs. Not even ones that may seem mundane on the outset. I think you’ll find this quest a bit more challenging than you imagine. You see, Raw Darkshard Ore can only be gathered by Shadowmancers, because Shadowmancers alone may open the way to the Shadowverse, where the ore is located. Unfortunately, the ore is also viciously protected by the ravenous Void Terrors, who subsist on the material. Perhaps”—he thumbed his nose with a knowing look in his eye—“you will find something more than mere ore there. Something extremely valuable for your career as a Maa-Tál. If you’re interested, my daughter would happily show you the way.”

A quest screen popped up in front of me:

Quest Alert: Gather Raw Darkshard Ore

Chief Kolle requires Raw Darkshard Ore in order to construct Arcane Shadow Cannons, needed for the defense of Yunnam. There is a natural source of the ore in the Ancient Darkshard Mine, half a day’s walk from the city. The ore is guarded by the ravenous Void Terrors of the Shadowverse.

Quest Class: Common, Class-Based

Quest Difficulty: Moderate

Success: Gather 100 pounds of Raw Darkshard Ore. Amara must survive.

Failure: Amara dies while on the mission.

Reward: 15,000 EXP; schematics for Arcane Shadow Cannons; increased reputation with the Dark Conclave and the Shadow Pantheon.

Accept: Yes/No?

I read the quest over. I always hated the endless ingredient gathering assignments RPGs often offered, but it sounded like there was a twist here if I was wise enough to see it. One I couldn’t afford to pass up—especially if it kept my future faction base safe from potential invaders. I reluctantly accepted.

TWO:

Shadow Portal

“For the record,” Amara said as we weaved through thick jungle vegetation, scaling a treacherously steep slope to the west of Yunnam, “I am not happy to be doing this. You”—she shot me a frosty look through the slits in her bone-mask—“may have passed the initiation ordeal, but I still don’t enjoy being a babysitter. Like some common forest guide.”

“Glad to see you’re bringing your positive outlook with us on the trip,” Cutter replied, in between labored wheezing.

“This from the man who oozes sarcasm and scorn like an infested wound,” she snapped, glaring at him. There was certainly no love lost there. Just so long as they kept it to bickering and didn’t stab each other.

“So what’s the deal with this Nangkri Dynasty your father mentioned?” I asked, sidestepping a mucky pool of brown water, then clambering over a downed tree covered in fuzzy moss and riddled with brown-capped fungi. It reminded me a bit of the Moss Hag, actually.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked sharply, a hint of warning in the words.

I’d been hoping to steer things back onto more friendly—or at least neutral—ground, but apparently, I’d hit some sort of sore spot. Either that, or this was just the way Amara responded to every question. Hard to tell with her at this point. “Curiosity?” I finally replied with a shrug. “Just seems like something interesting to talk about while we walk.” Plus, I was savvy enough as a gamer to know there was likely a quest chain tied to something like that.

She sniffed in disapproval and looked away, resuming her restless scan of the land, eyes never ceasing their search. “Instead of your chitchat,” she replied, “maybe you should practice the art of silence. You make enough noise to alert every potential enemy in the area of our presence. You are like a baby Troll, blundering through the forest without a care in the world.” She turned away and picked up the pace to a near jog—a clip fast enough to ensure Cutter and I were too winded to talk anymore.

Eventually, the sloping hill began to level out, and after a few twists, turns, and switchbacks to avoid some particularly difficult terrain—a sheer rock wall, a fetid pool studded with yellow reptilian eyes, a steep chasm that sliced into the earth—we crested the ascent and spotted what had to be the mine. Not far off was a small mound of rough, moss-covered rock jutting up from a tangle of vines and trees. Even from where we were standing, it was easy to spot the deep fissure gouged into the rock face, leading back into the earth. I activated my player map and saw a location marker pop up on the screen: Ancient Darkshard Mine.

“You. Thief,” Amara said as she drew a recurve bow of dark wood, carefully checked the string, then pulled an arrow from the quiver at her back. “Likely, there will be traps or wards. You will go first. To disarm any potential hazards and scout for enemies.”

“Woah, now,” Cutter replied, holding up his hands in protest. “That sorta sounds like a command, and last I checked, I don’t take orders from you.” He paused and squinted, eyes narrowed in defiance. “In point of fact, I don’t take orders from anyone, ever, not unless they’re dangling a fat bag of gold in front of my face. And me? I see no gold. Besides”—he folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow—“you’re a Huntress, which is basically a less awesome Rogue, so I know you have Stealth and Trap Detection.”

“Yes,” she said, face deadpan and unamused, “but if you perish, no one will miss you. If I perish, Grim Jack fails his mission.” A ghost of a smile seemed to touch the corners of her lips, self-satisfied by her wicked burn.

He shot a look back at me, indignant.

“She’s got a good point, Cutter,” I said. “Plus, I thought you were the best thief in Eldgard, right? This seems like your thing.”

“For the sake of our friendship, Jack, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear you just question my thieving credentials. And as for you,” he said, rounding on Amara, “obviously, your feelings for me have addled your brain—my roughish good looks sometimes have that effect on the fairer sex—so I’ll let your insult go. For now.”

I snorted and shook my head. He was delusional. “Oh, she’s definitely got some strong feelings for you, Cutter, but I think you might be misreading the situation. I’d say she’s fighting off an urge not to spear you through the guts and feed your corpse to the village pigs.”

Ignoring my jab completely, Cutter turned and set off, padding forward on silent feet. When he wanted to, the man could move like a ghost. I stole a sidelong glance at Amara—she was watching the thief with something that might’ve been begrudging respect plastered onto her face. That or nausea.

Cutter paused at the cave’s entrance, dropping to a knee as he ran fingers over the forest floor, probing the dirt and looking for some sign of a ward. After a moment, he stood and began to inspect the rock wall to the left, before moving on to the right. His fingers gently prodded and poked at the stone, examining every inch for traps. Satisfied with whatever he’d found, he dropped into Stealth, shadows reaching out to him—curling around him, softening the lines of his body until he was little more than an indistinct blur. Then, in a blink, he was gone.

Disappeared into the yawning mouth of the ore shaft, cloaked in shadow.

“Is there anything I should know about these Void Terrors your dad mentioned?” I asked Amara as I crept toward the cave, slipping my warhammer from my belt.

“They are dangerous,” she offered tersely before heading into the entry, leaving me to trail behind.

“They’re dangerous,” I muttered as my sight adjusted to the gloomy interior. After a few seconds, my Night Eye ability kicked in and everything took on a spectral blue tinge.

Amara didn’t bother to drop into Stealth, so I caught sight of her easily enough even in the poor lighting. She did tread carefully, though. She had an arrow nocked and ready to loose at a moment’s notice as she stared at every crevice and pocket of shadow as though it might potentially hold some deadly beast, just waiting to eat our faces. I gripped my warhammer a little more tightly, fidgeting nervously as I prepared to embrace the dark power of Umbra so I could hurl a ball of shadow at any potential foe.

The tunnel continued to dive steeply into the earth, a musky, damp smell growing in the air while darkness pressed in on me, sapping what little light trickled in from the cave opening. Maybe I was just catching a bit of Amara’s obvious paranoia, but it sure felt like we were being watched. The deeper in we went, the worse the sensation became, until I found myself constantly glancing over my shoulder, sure I’d see something preparing to pounce. Except, there was never anything there. Just jagged rock, barren ground, and endless darkness.

After what felt like a lifetime in the underground cavern, our muted footfalls were finally interrupted by the subtle splat, splat, splat of dripping water. The tunnel leveled out and opened up into a small chamber with a pitiful waterfall—hardly more than the trickle of a leaky showerhead—feeding into an equally pitiful stream. The stream, in turn, cut across the path before disappearing into a slim crevice in the tunnel wall, swallowed deeper into the earth. Cutter was on the opposite side of the stream, lounging against the wall, legs sprawled out, ankles crossed while he fastidiously cleaned his nails with a dagger.

He held up his fingers, regarding his handiwork, before finally stowing the blade and turning his attention on us. “You sure oversold this place, Amara,” he said, lazily gaining his feet. “They must’ve been relying solely on the creep factor to keep people away. Not a single trap. Not even a whiff of opposition—not that there’s anything to keep people away from. No branching pathways. No secret rooms. No treasure or loot.” He said that last bit like an accusation of high treason. “Just a whole lot of nothing. Other than that stupid plate on the floor.” He gestured at a metal disk, about the diameter of a large tree. “It’s not gold and doesn’t seem to have any sort of activation mechanism. Worthless.”

The disk was composed of dull, pockmarked silver, covered with runes and glyphs, and set into the stone so it sat flush with the rest of the ground. Though Cutter insisted the disk was worthless, just looking at it made my stomach flutter: violet energy radiated from the thing in cold waves of power, calling to me. Beckoning me. Touch me, it seemed to whisper in the back of my head. The black handprint on my forearm—a gift from a dying Murk Shaman, who’d first set me on the path of the Dark Templar—began to throb with a dull chill.

There was a resonance here. A familiarity.

“So, what do you expect us to do now?” Cutter asked Amara, accusation coating his words as he planted hands on hips.

“You are a fool—” she began.

I held up my hand, cutting the argument short.

“Hold on,” I said quietly. “There’s definitely something here.” I moved forward, shouldering past a disgruntled Cutter, before dropping to a knee at the edge of the circle. I bent over and ran my fingers along the metal, feeling the corroded surface, tracing along the strange lettering. As I did, the throbbing palm-print branded on my skin began to pulse in concert with the beating of my heart. After a few heartbeats, the icy chill in my arm became almost painful, sending frozen tendrils of power radiating through my body like a creeping fog.

Then, working on hazy intuition, I triggered my Shadow Stride ability.

A cloud of smoky black exploded out from me as normal, but instead of time crawling to a standstill, the strange ring drew in the eruption of Umbra power. I stumbled back a step, landing on my ass as a portal of dark, flickering purple sprang to life inside the confines of the metal ring. I quickly scrambled to me feet, never taking my eyes from the shimmering gateway into the unknown, as though something might charge out at any second.

“As I was saying,” Amara offered coolly, “you are a fool, Cutter. This disk may appear useless to one without a key. But we”—she strutted up and slapped a hand against my back—“have a key. Come. The Shadowverse lies beyond.”

I gulped, suddenly unsure I wanted to go through that gateway. “So, Cutter,” I finally said, “you’re our official scout and thief—wanna go first?”

He frowned and shook his head. “Yeah, naw. I’m good. This seems like your show, Grim Jack. Why don’t you lead the way, oh fearless one?”

I stole a glance at Amara. She shrugged noncommittally. “It is your quest.”

I sighed, blew out my cheeks, then readjusted my grip. Finally, I stepped into the portal, cold power washing over me as my stomach did summersaults.

THREE:

Void Terrors

I stepped into an eerie tunnel, colored in monochromatic shades of black and white with splashes of purple spattered throughout. The hallway I’d left behind had dead-ended, but in the Shadowverse, the hallway continued on, stretching into the distance, the walls wavering and blurring on the edges as though they were made of water instead of stone. The experience was similar enough to Shadow Striding that I didn’t completely freak out—at least, not until I heard a terrible shriek cut through the air like a buzz saw.

I planted my feet and prepared to strike as I squinted against the dark and scanned the hallway, looking for the source of the ear-shattering racket.

Nothing. No movement.

Only dark shadows, flickering and churning on the edges of my vision. But then the awful cry came again, this time much closer. I swiveled my head left, then right, taking my time as I scanned the passageway. A flash of movement caught my eye: a streak of shadow like an ink stain, rushing along the surface of the right-hand wall, heading for me. What the heck is that? I found myself wondering as the stain darted closer and closer—

Something landed on my shoulder. I wheeled around, conjuring an Umbra Bolt in one hand as I braced myself for something horrific to maul the crap out of me. Instead, I found Cutter standing off to my left, a disgruntled look blanketing his features. “Well this place is awful,” he muttered.

“Shut it,” I hissed, spinning back around, urgently searching for the incoming blob of shade. Another ear-shattering shriek broke the air, this time within spitting distance. My gaze swiveled to a spot on the wall maybe six feet away; I was just in time to watch something explode outward, springing off the surface of the wall, materializing into a creature with wicked fangs, a lithe lupine frame, and flesh-rending talons.

A tag popped up above its head. [Void Terror].

“Bloody hell!” Cutter squawked as the creature slammed into my chest and brought me to the ground like a lion ambushing some witless antelope. Its claws seemed to sink directly through my armor, digging painfully into my skin as my red-tinged HP bar flashed in the upper right corner of my vision. With gritted teeth, I raised my hand and unleashed the pent-up bolt of flickering shadow directly into the creature’s compact muzzle. The blast landed with a thud. Though it didn’t do much damage to the Void Terror, it jarred the creature to one side, buying me a moment to breathe. To think.

With a heave, I drew my legs in, planted my feet in the creature’s gut, and kicked with everything I had.

The Void Terror might’ve hit hard and had a very painful attack, but it didn’t weigh all that much. My mule-kick launched it backward, giving me half a second to scramble to my feet and raise my weapon to the ready. The creature was fast, though, and regained its footing in no time, shifting left and then shooting in again, its tar-black lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing its purple fangs. I called up another Umbra Bolt, but before I could release the spell, Cutter’s blade flew past my face, slipping into the thing’s yawning mouth. The Void Terror’s head snapped back as it stumbled, tottered, then dropped to the floor in a heap.

A length of gleaming steel protruded from the back of its throat, the edge coated in inky goop.

The creature gave out one last shuddering twitch, before disappearing in a dramatic swirl of black smoke, leaving behind nothing but Cutter’s gore-covered dagger and a small pile of shimmering black dust. “Good shot,” I wheezed with a nod at Cutter.

“Obviously,” he said with a sniff. “When you’re the best thief in all of Eldgard, you don’t miss.”

I rolled my eyes as I padded forward, then crouched down to examine the drop.

I hastily retrieved Cutter’s dagger, eyed the strange blood, then tossed him the weapon. He snatched it from the air by the hilt with a deceptive, nimble ease. I didn’t think he was actually the best thief in Eldgard, but no one could dispute he was quick with his hands and incredibly good with a blade. I turned back to the dusty remains of the creature and activated my inventory as I reviewed the other contents of the strange pile. I found two Void Terror Claws—which looked to be some sort of alchemic ingredient with unknown properties—and a small pile of Shadowverse Salts.

“By the way,” I said absently, examining the salts, “what took you so long to get here? And where’s Amara? She’s sure dragging her feet.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked from behind, sounding genuinely confused. “I followed you through the second you left. Couldn’t have been more than a few heartbeats.”

Hmm. That was weird.

I pocketed the Shadowverse Salts and stood, glancing back toward the portal, brow furrowed, lips pulled down into a frown. Whenever I activated my Shadow Stride ability, it made time grind to a halt for everyone except me—I idly wondered if time moved differently here. Maybe Amara was moving in eighth-speed back in the real world. The thought quickly fled as a new round of shrieks echoed along the dark tunnel. A lot of shrieks. Like a pack of hunting wolves, closing in for the kill. It took me only a handful of seconds to spot a mob of the lupine Void Terrors rushing toward us—these loped along on the ground, not bothering to mask their approach.

There were at least ten of them.

“Oh bollocks,” Cutter muttered, staring intently at the tunnel, now shrouded in unnatural shade.

“Yep,” I replied as I conjured Night Armor around myself—a twenty-minute defensive aura that absorbed 15% of melee damage and reflected 20% of that damage back at the attacker. More importantly, though, it drastically reduced the physical pain from attacks, which was an even better feature in my book.

“You ready for this?” Cutter asked, slipping a second dagger from a sheath at his side.

“Nope,” I replied with a slight shake of my head. “Get ready to move,” I said. “I’m going to try to slow them down.” I thrust out my left hand, letting the freezing power of shadow spill out of me as I activated Umbra Bog. The tunnel floor below the incoming creatures exploded into a pool of thick prehistoric tar, and whipping tendrils of deepest black wrapped themselves around the feet and legs of the creatures, jerking the whole mass of them to an abrupt halt. The Terrors snarled and yowled in protest, jaws snapping at the shadowy tentacles binding them.

But their slicing teeth found nothing to grip, nothing to tear.

“Thirty seconds!” I yelled at Cutter, darting forward like a madman with my hammer raised and ready to kill. Cutter was already moving, spinning his daggers as he ran so the blades twirled along the outside of his forearms. He leapt at the last moment, sailing through the air, flipping head over heels, before coming down in the middle of the pack, his daggers flashing out like lightning. He spun and whirled, dancing his way through the mob, a manic grin plastered across his face as black blood flew through the air around him in sheets.

I focused on the Terror leading the charge—bringing my hammer around, smashing the blunt face right into its snarling mouth as I triggered my Savage Blow attack. The creature yelped, its head flinging to the side, still bound by my Umbra Bog. I ducked low and lunged forward in one fluid motion, jabbing the wicked spike on top of my hammer into the creature’s exposed neck. It let out a strangled gurgle-gasp, blood frothing from its lips as it dropped to the ground, critically injured, but somehow still alive.

I ripped my weapon free and thoughtlessly brought my left gauntlet—studded along the outside edge with small blades—down onto the creature’s head with an audible crack. An ugly, disturbing noise. I spun away, blasting a nearby Terror in the ribs with an Umbra Bolt, which punched a hole into its side with a critical hit, revealing a gut filled with churning purple and inky fingers of shadowy power. Cutter appeared almost out of nowhere, driving his twin daggers through the top of the creature’s skull, killing it where it stood.

The Umbra Bog countdown clock was quickly ticking down to zero, and we still had an awful lot of these things to kill. I did a quick count: five left. I wheeled around again, bolting forward and caving in another head with Savage Blow, which took a large bite out of my available Stamina. A second after landing the devastating hit, my spell—holding the Terrors in traction—dissipated in a puff of sooty smoke, unleashing the rest of the beasts. I tried to trigger my Shadow Stride ability, hoping to duck out before things got too crazy, but received an unfortunate combat prompt a second later:

Shadow Stride failed! Since you are already in the Shadowverse, you cannot currently activate this ability!

I blinked the notification away as something barreled into my gut, bony shoulders digging into my ribs and throwing me hard to one side. I stumbled and reeled from the unexpected attack, but somehow managed to keep my feet. I tried to spin right, to confront the thing that’d just hit me, but a set of jaws crunched down on my left forearm, pinning me in place. I glanced down at the creature latched onto my arm like a giant leech and saw a set of angry purple eyes staring back at me.

Its gaze seemed to paralyze me, to trap me and hold me in place. I felt a twinge of connection—one kindred soul recognizing another. I didn’t know what was happening, but I sensed I was now in a battle of wills, one I didn’t want to lose. I stared at the beast, refusing to blink as its teeth dug deeper into my skin.

“Down!” Amara bellowed from behind me, her words a whip-crack of command.

But I refused to back down; instead, I stood there motionless. A second later, the Void Terror gnawing on my arm fell away, its mouth suddenly slack, its eyes glazed over in death. An arrow, topped by a row of bristly black feathers, protruded from its neck. More arrows whooshed around me, wooden shafts peppering the remaining creatures. I stared on in utter amazement as the Terrors around me dropped like flies, each killed by a perfect, meticulous shot.

Not a single arrow failed to find its mark.

In next to no time, the few creatures that’d survived Cutter’s and my brutal assault all lay in heaps. Dead. Wow. Archers were such an underrated class. I glanced over one shoulder and saw Cutter—liberally coated in scratches, bite marks, and blood—appraising Amara with an approving grin.

She planted her bow on the ground, leaning casually on the weapon, and returned his grin with a faint, barely-there smile. That’s right, the look said, I’m totally badass.

“’Bout time you showed up,” Cutter finally offered, giving his daggers a fanciful twirl before stashing them in a pair of leather sheaths. “Leave us to do all the heavy lifting, eh?”

She offered him a flat, unamused stare. “If you two are done fooling around,” she replied casually, as if she hadn’t just pwned five Void Terrors, “then let us gather what we came for and go.” She paused, then shivered. “This place is unnatural.”

FOUR:

Ore Grind

We made our way deeper into the complex, all of us sticking close together even though that wasn’t really the best tactical strategy. With our current lineup, Cutter should’ve been scouting, I should’ve been playing as an impromptu tank, and Amara should’ve been trailing at the rear, firing arrows while I drew aggro.

That’s what we should’ve done, but didn’t.

The place was just too creepy, and no one wanted to be alone. Not even Amara, though she’d never actually admit it. The upper portion of the tunnel had been nothing but a crude hole, boring straight into the heart of the earth, but the Shadowverse-side of the shaft quickly changed: Intricate archways of dark stone, carved with artful, neon-blue runes, began to dot the passageway at regular intervals. Hallways and rooms—filled with heavy stone tables, chairs, shelves, and deadly traps—started cropping up, along with the occasional dissected corpse.

Clearly, this mine had once belonged to an advanced civilization, but that civilization had long since moved on or died out.

And then, there were the Void Terrors to contend with.

We’d been attacked four more times after that first battle royal; the creatures would leap from the shadows when least expected, ambushing us with brutal, economic efficiency. Even worse, the various Void Terrors were all different. Not a single one resembled the strange wolf-like creatures we’d first encountered. Some were tiny. Some were huge. A few had tentacles. Others sported wings or tearing, insectile claws—sometimes both. All were horrific, though, and I was confident they’d fuel my nightmares for days and weeks to come.

The huge variety of new creatures also offered a slew of unique challenges, since each type had its own deadly array of special attacks, which often left us bleeding on the floor. The Terrors were absolutely miserable, and other than Void Terror Claws and Shadowverse Salts, they provided no loot and only marginal EXP. This was the worst kind of grind.

“There’s another room up on the left,” Cutter whispered, jabbing a finger toward a dark doorway. We angled left and crept to a stop, carefully pressing ourselves up against the wall, just to one side of the entryway, with Cutter nearest the door. He stole a quick look at me and Amara, then dropped into Stealth, vanishing into a faint blur. I held my breath in anticipation as he stole forward on silent feet—there wasn’t even a whisper to mark his steps. He took a quick glance around the corner, then darted into the room, vanishing from view. I dropped into a crouch myself, activating Stealth as I waited for Cutter to draw out whatever new threat lay in the room beyond.

His head popped around the corner a second later, a lopsided grin on his face. “Got another deposit,” he said, sweeping an arm out behind him. “Big one, too.”

I exhaled in relief and edged forward, slipping through the doorway and into the boxy room beyond. A small stone shelf ran along the right wall, holding a few useless trinkets—rusted flasks, plates, and silverware from a different era. A pair of bulky stone chairs, high backed with thick armrests, sat off to the left. My eyes immediately swept past them, halting on an outcropping of dark quartz jutting from the far wall. We’d hit pay dirt. So far, we’d only run across one other deposit, which had netted me three pounds of ore—next to nothing considering I needed a hundred to complete the chief’s quest.

This vein, though, with its jagged spikes protruding like porcupine quills, was at least ten times the size of that last one. Maybe more.

“Alright,” I said, swapping out my warhammer for a crude pickaxe Amara had so kindly provided me with. “We should probably settle in. We could be here for a minute.”

“I’ll set a ward,” Amara offered tersely, moving over to the entrance, then dropping to her haunches as she began to fish a variety of items from her bag: a bronze dagger, a pouch filled with yellow salts, and a little flask, which glowed with a hazy opalescent light. As a Huntress, she could set a variety of traps and wards that would either catch or kill any unfriendlies foolish enough to cross her deadly workmanship.

“And I’ll get lunch,” Cutter offered, heading over to one of the bulky chairs and plopping down with a groan.

I left them to their work—or non-work in Cutter’s case—as I headed over and laid into the vein. I hefted the pickaxe and threw my body into each strike as I carved away a few meager slivers of stone at a time; chips of rock flew through the air as the ring of steel echoed around us. Over and over again, I smashed at the ore. Attacking it from different angles. Looking for crevices or weak spots to exploit. And, when nothing else seemed to do the trick, I used brute force and a heathy dose of elbow grease. I worked and worked, until my muscles burned from the exertion and sweat coated my face and chest in a slick sheen.

It took nearly an hour of grueling, backbreaking effort to clear half the vein, which earned me a lousy twenty-five pounds of Raw Darkshard Ore. But, as a bonus, I also earned a new profession:

Gathering Profession: Mining

Mining allows the player to gather a wide array of raw minerals from ore veins scattered all around Eldgard and West Viridia. Mining is one of five gathering professions—Mining, Foraging, Logging, Hunting, Farming—which any class and race can access. Gathering Professions allow players to accumulate resources, which can then be used by Crafting Professions to manufacture a huge variety of items, ranging from potions to armor and weapons.

There are eight primary Crafting Professions: Cooking, Enchanting, Alchemy, Tailoring and Leatherwork, Engineering, Merchant-Craft, Blacksmithing, and Lapidary (Jeweler). All Professions, both Gathering and Crafting, can be unlocked and leveled through practice and use, but any specialized skills or abilities within a given profession must be unlocked with Proficiency Points. All specialized profession skills can be upgraded a total of seven times (Initiate, Novice, Adept, Journeyman, Specialist, Master, Grandmaster).

Gathering Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 1 (Initiate)

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Extract 5% more material from all ore veins.

Effect 2: Extracting material requires 8% less effort, reducing overall stamina drain while actively mining and cutting the time necessary to exhaust a vein.

Effect 3: Randomly spawn a gem (diamond, ruby, sapphire, emerald, jade, turquoise, lapis lazuli, pearl, beryl, topaz, opal, moonstone, sunstone, bloodstone) while mining. Spawn Chance = (.001 x Luck)

I read over the notification—partly because I was interested and partly because I desperately needed a breather—then pulled up my Crafting Skill Tree. Each of the primary professions ran along the bottom of my vision, and each, in turn, had a branching skill tree with a variety of neat abilities that could be unlocked with Proficiency Points. With my measly level one in Mining, there weren’t any skills available to me—not that I was really interested in specializing in this profession, anyway—but at higher levels, there were all kinds of cool extras:

Skills to drastically reduce mining time, increase vein size, or increase gem drop rate. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. There were specialized skills that went far beyond simple ore gathering: there was a whole branch dedicated to Battle-Mining, which allowed specialists to destroy walls, tunnel under fortified positions, and deploy alchemic “blasting charges” to raze buildings. Basically, a demolition class.

“Stop slacking,” Cutter yelled at me. “No one wants to be here all day, friend. So, how’s about you get back to work, eh?”

I turned and glowered at him, my eyes narrowed in annoyance. Amara was standing sentry by the door, guarding our backs, but Cutter was lounging, carefree, in one of the chairs. He had a small campfire burning merrily in front of him while he warmed his hands and nibbled on a skewer of roasted spider meat—gross sounding, but surprisingly tasty.

“It’d go faster if you helped,” I replied, fishing a piece of rough cloth from my pocket and dabbing at the perspiration on my forehead.

He grimaced, scrunched his nose in distaste, then shook his head. “Naw,” he replied. “Mining’s not really my thing. Seems beneath me, I suppose.” He paused and regarded me gravely. “It’s perfect for you, though.”

“And what is your thing?” Amara asked, the words dripping venom. “In the week you’ve been in Yunnam, I’ve seen you eat heaps of food you didn’t gather, drink gallons of mead you didn’t brew, and sleep while everyone else worked. So”—she paused, planting hands on hips in clear disapproval—“what exactly is it you’re good at?”

“First, I’m not sure I like your tone,” Cutter said with a sniff. “And second, I’ve already told you what I’m good at: thieving. If you need a lock picked, a trap disarmed, a bloated bureaucrat robbed blind, or someone shanked in the kidney … well, then I’m your man. I also offer questionable advice and dubious moral support. Anything else”—he shrugged noncommittally—“is sorta outside of my wheelhouse.” He leaned back in his chair, a smug look flashing across his features as he took another bite of roasted spider.

Amara offered a sharp retort, but I put the bickering pair from mind, turning my attention back to the ore vein.

Despite being a lazy jerk, Cutter was right: this vein wasn’t going to mine itself, and I didn’t want to spend any more time down here than absolutely necessary. Eventually, Cutter and Amara’s arguing faded into background noise as I lost myself to the rhythm and repetition of mining. Lift, slam, pull. Lift, slam, pull. Lift, slam, pull. Wash, rinse, and repeat over and over again. After almost another hour, I polished off the remining twenty-five pounds of ore and stowed my pick, before grabbing a drink from my pouch and taking a quick lunch break.

Cutter had generously left a few spits of skewered spider for me warming by the fire, and though the meat was questionable, the taste was extraordinary and immediately eased my tender muscles:

Buffs Added

Spider Meat: Restore 55 HP over 21 seconds; increase Health Regen by 12%, duration 5 minutes.

Well-Fed: Base Constitution increased by (2) points; duration 20 minutes.

I ate in silence—the dark atmosphere of the place was weighing down on everyone, sucking away what little joy there was—then washed the meal down with a cool bottle of Broken Dagger Mead. Finally, with my belly full, I checked my inventory. We’d been at this for hours and I had just over half the material I needed to fulfill the quest. With a sigh and a muted groan, I gained my feet and pulled my warhammer free, ready to venture out into the world again. “Guess we better keep moving,” I said, edging toward the entryway and glancing out into the dark hallway beyond. “I’d like to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

FIVE:

Ancient Tome

It was another four hours, six Void Terror skirmishes, and three smaller ore deposits later—putting me at ninety pounds Raw Darkshard Ore—when we rounded a snaking corner and found ourselves at a dead end. The tunnel went no further, but there was an elaborately carved archway, decorated with swirling script in an unreadable language, on the left.

Most of the rooms we’d explored so far had been tiny things—not much bigger than a bedroom—and largely devoid of furnishings or other items that might’ve given us some insight into what this strange place had once been. But the room on the left was different. It was a cavernous space with vaulted ceilings and row after towering row of bookcases loaded down with dusty tomes. Dark stone columns, studded with enormous wrought-iron sconces, marched along the sweeping central hallway, eventually vanishing back in the darkness of the enormous library. Each sconce held a ball of unnatural purple flame, staining everything with hazy, flickering light.

“Now,” Cutter said gleefully, rubbing his hands together, “this is where I thrive. So far, this place hasn’t been much fun, but this room”—he swept an arm out—“screams loot and gold and treasure. Amara,” he said, turning back to the Huntress, “why don’t you secure the door while Jack and I have ourselves a little look around, eh?” He didn’t even wait for her to reply. Instead, he strode off into the murky gloom of the library like a kid bound for the tree on Christmas morning.

I glanced at Amara. She rolled her eyes at me and shooed me onward with a flick of her hand before squatting down and setting to work on her wards. I trusted Cutter to find any chests or secret panels that might contain gamer goodies—if there was one thing that truly motivated him, it was free stuff—so I decided to turn my attention to the endless books filling the shelves. Even if the tomes didn’t actually provide any tangible benefit, learning the lore of Eldgard would be a reward in itself. Reading up on game history and lore had always been one of my favorite RPG pastimes; knowing all the backstory always deepened the experience and immersion for me.

I headed into the stacks, absently running my fingers along book spines, reading the title of each as I went.

Stonecutters Primer … History and Culture of the Svartalfar, Book 3 … Letters of Makdir the Mad, v. 1 … Anthropological Treatise of the Shining Plains … The Golem Chronicles … The Viridian Accords, 892 AIC, Vol. 7 …

On and on they went, so many titles. Some were eye-wateringly dull, while others instantly piqued my curiosity, demanding I pick them up and flip through their ancient pages. But I didn’t even know where to start—the sheer volume of information was overwhelming, and since each book weighed in at a whopping twenty pounds, I didn’t really have room to grab more than a few. So, instead I meandered aimlessly—treading down one aisle then up another—until eventually I found my fingers lingering on a title called Taming the Void: A Shadowmancer Primer …

That sure got my attention in a hurry.

The book seemed to exude a cold power, which I was quickly coming to associate with the shadowy energy of the Umbra. I slipped the volume from the shelf, letting its hefty weight settle comfortably into my hands, before carefully cracking the cover. The book uttered a soft moan followed by the fluttering of paper, which sounded like a stiff breeze rustling through dry fall leaves. Open me, that fluttering demanded. Read me. Learn my secrets. I felt my mouth go dry as my eyes landed on the first page of text:

Void Terrors

Void Terrors are a semi-sentient group of dangerous and often bizarre creatures that inhabit the darkest regions of the Shadowverse. Void Terrors are something of a mysterious anomaly, since no one is quite sure where they come from, how they are formed, whether they reproduce, or even how they survive. Ajahn Mahasi, a Grand Shadowmancer from the 6th century A.I.C., posited that Void Terrors are actually the murdered souls of especially vicious monsters who refused to pass on into the next life. Void Terrors can be especially dangerous to unwary travelers because all damage dealt is counted as Shadow Damage and ignores 35% of an opponent’s armor rating.

Shadowmancers and Void Terrors

Shadowmancers have a wide variety of powerful skills at their disposal, but one of the most unique and formidable techniques is their ability to bind and summon captured Void Terrors directly from the Shadowverse. For every Proficiency Point invested into the Void Terror ability—giving the Shadowmancer access to up to seven distinct Terrors—the Shadowmancer may permanently bind one wild Void Terror to their will.

Bound Void Terrors retain their unique creature properties and abilities and will level up as they are used; larger Terrors can also be utilized as mounts. Only one Void Terror may be summoned to the Material Plane at any given time. All Void Terrors must return to the Shadowverse after twenty-four hours and remain there for at least eight in-game hours to recuperate. Void Terrors cannot be truly killed; if they perish while summoned, however, they lose all current EXP, return to the Shadowverse, and are then subject to a mandatory eight-hour cooldown time. Traditional healing potions, spells, and buffs do not affect Void Terrors—instead, they can only be healed by consuming Raw Darkshard Ore or through specialized potions, concocted using Shadowverse Salts and ground Void Terror Claws.

Investing Proficiency Points in the Shadowmancer’s Astral Connection skill can increase the power, strength, duration, and EXP gain of summoned Terrors, while also reducing the cooldown time required to summon a given Terror. At higher levels, the Astral Connection skill also converts a portion of all damage done by the Void Terror into Spirit for the Shadowmancer.

Wow. This was huge.

I’d seen both the Void Terror and Astral Connection spells in my skill tree, but the ability descriptions had been largely generic and unhelpful. Almost purposely vague, as though the Devs hadn’t wanted to disclose too many details about the skills. I also hadn’t been able to find much information on the available wikis—though whether that was because Osmark Tech was suppressing info to prevent metagaming, or because no one had gotten this far, I couldn’t say. Because of the restrictions on the spell, I wouldn’t be able to spawn a minion-army like a Necro or a Warlock, but something inside me screamed to pay attention. That this was important.

I flipped the page, and was presented with a spell:

Terror Bound

In order to bind a wild Void Terror to serve as a minion, the Shadowmancer must have at least one available point invested in the Void Terror ability, then the Shadowmancer must cast the specialized conjuration spell, Terror Bound, on a severely weakened Void Terror. If the spell is successful, the caster and Void Terror will enter into a Contest of Wills: If the caster prevails in the contest, the Void Terror will be bound. If the caster loses the battle, they will instantly be killed and sent for respawn.

Would you like to learn the specialized conjuration spell, Terror Bound?

Accept: Yes/No?

“Yes,” I muttered into the empty air, eyes still fixed on the book in front of me. Another prompt popped up below the spell page:

Using this item will destroy it, permanently removing “Taming the Void: A Shadowmancer Primer” from your inventory. Are you sure you would like to learn Terror Bound?

“Yeah, yeah,” I said again, nodding my head.

There was an audible pop accompanied by a brilliant flash of light as a small tornado of violet light swirled around me, brushing over me with arctic air. The book dissolved in my hands, turning into a pile of dust, caught up and carried away by the slapping wind. In the same instant, my head began to throb, a deep dull ache building behind my eyes as if my skull had been caught in a vise grip. I dropped unceremoniously to the ground as the whipping wind died and began to grind my palms into my eye sockets, furiously trying to release the mounting tension in my head.

Then, in a blink, knowledge bloomed in the back of my mind—it vaguely felt like recalling some fact, half-forgotten ages ago—and the pain was gone. Vanished as quickly as it had come.

Since I was already seated, I sprawled my legs out in front of me and leaned back against one of the stone bookcases behind me, stealing a brief moment of well-deserved rest as I pulled up my user interface. A lifelike image of myself floated in the air, slowly rotating, showing my gear. I had gunmetal gray skin and a short-cropped beard lining my jaw. I absently gave my gear a once-over. My medium armor, covered in swaths of ebony chainmail, glowed with swirls of purple shadow power. My leggings and boots were dark leather and finely made. I had a black cloak, pinned shut with a silver brooch, around my shoulders—the thick cowl pulled up to conceal much of my face.

I grinned. I had to admit, I was looking pretty badass these days. Then, with a sigh, I toggled over to my character screen, wanting to review my stats before I made any significant changes or point investments.

After killing the Moss Hag and earning my class kit, I’d crawled up to level twenty-three, but the progress had crept along at a glacial pace since then. That was sort of to be expected, though; there really wasn’t much point in designing a game as sweeping and immersive as V.G.O. only to let players power level to one hundred in a week. I closed out of the screen and quickly flicked through a few additional menus until the Void Terror ability description lingered before me:

Skill: Void Terror

Through their unparalleled connection to the Umbra, Shadowmancers are able to call upon the denizens of the Shadowverse for aid.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Locked

Cost: 500 Spirit

Range: 1 Meter

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: Void Terror must rest for 1 hour in the Shadowverse for every 3 hours spent in the Material Realm; Void Terror must return to the Shadowverse after 24 consecutive hours in the Material Realm.

Effect: Call upon denizens of the Shadowverse to fight on your behalf; some conjured minions can also be used as mounts.

Restriction: Must have a bound Void Terror in order to utilize this skill.

Restriction: A Shadowmancer can only bind up to seven Void Terrors—one for every Proficiency Point invested.

Restriction: Only one Void Terror may be summoned at a time.

At this point, I still had 8 Proficiency Points waiting in reserve, so I didn’t hesitate to invest a point into the Void Terror ability, unlocking the skill and allowing me to bind (1) Void Terror to my will.

Satisfied, I dismissed my interface, gained my feet, and brushed my dirty palms along the front of my trousers, preparing to resume my scan of the library. A bellowing roar stopped me dead in my tracks; the noise was so loud it rattled tomes from their shelves—a rain of hefty books suddenly hit the floor. A second later I heard the urgent slap of running footfalls, and watched as Cutter bolted from behind a bookcase, sprinting for all he was worth toward the archway.

I didn’t know what was happening, but it couldn’t be good, so I broke into a run, tearing after him. “What did you do?” I hollered as I pulled up alongside him, my legs pumping and churning.

“I found a secret passage,” he wheezed, not bothering to look at me. “Whole shite load of Raw Darkshard Ore—the absolute motherload, I’d wager—but there was something in there with it. Guarding it.”

“What is it?” I called, stealing a brief glance over my shoulder. I saw nothing but encroaching darkness.

“Not sure,” he huffed, “but it’s big and very, very, very pissed off.”

SIX:

Void Drake

The roar came again, a bellow that rattled my teeth and reverberated in my bones—I didn’t want to look back, but I couldn’t help myself and stole a peek anyway. Bad idea. There was something giant, scaly, black, and serpentine charging toward us, its wicked jaws snapping at the air as strings of purple drool dripped from its maw. My heart sped up a few notches, pounding away in my chest while a cold sweat broke out across my brow. Six days ago I’d been an EMT, waiting for the world to come to a fiery end, and the scariest thing I’d ever seen was a nasty four-car pileup on the I-15 South.

And now I had to fight the monstrosity tearing after me. Even after battling a swarm of horrible monsters and slaying a school-bus-sized Swamp Hag, I found I still wasn’t built for this kind of thing. All I wanted to do was go home and hide under the bed. This game was just too intense.

But, despite my fear and my desire to curl up in the fetal position, I threw out a hand and summoned Umbra Bog. I glanced back again and felt a momentary wave of relief as I watched a quagmire of black goop spring from the walls and floors, temporarily snaring the approaching whatever it was. My budding relief quickly disappeared as the creature issued another bone-shaking roar, crouched low, and spewed out a gout of purple flame as thick as a telephone pole. “Run faster!” I hollered at Cutter, before wheeling around and dropping to a knee as I conjured my Dark Shield.

With my Dark Shield ability, I could afford to take a big hit, but Cutter couldn’t. He could deal out some serious damage, but he couldn’t take much in return. Not as a Rogue. A dark dome of shimmering light flared around me, eating through my already depleted Spirit supply at an astonishing rate. The dome did, however, absorb the majority of the flame burst, and the little that seeped through was quickly sapped by the Night Armor wrapped around me like a second skin. My Spirit gauge—a luminescent purple bar—flashed a warning in the corner of my eye, letting me know I was almost out of juice.

Thankfully, the column of unnatural fire faded and died about the same time as my shield did.

A quick look at the Umbra Bog countdown timer on my right told me I had about ten seconds before that thing broke loose and unleashed nine kinds of hell on me. Oh yeah, definitely time to move. I gained my feet in a second, spun, and put every ounce of effort into bolting for the library entrance as I pulled a Spirit Regen potion from my belt and quickly downed the contents. I killed the potion in a few quick glugs, tossed the empty bottle as I cleared the entryway, and scrambled into the connecting tunnel beyond.

I skidded to a stop, wheeling around, wildly searching for my teammates.

For a second, I couldn’t find either Cutter or Amara and jumped to the irrational conclusion that they’d heard the creature roar and decided to leave me for dead. If I weren’t a generous guy, I’d probably consider doing the same thing if I were in their shoes. My uncharitable thoughts vanished when I spotted two partially blurred forms lingering by the far wall, both cloaked in Stealth. I slipped right, pressing my back against the wall, then bent over and took a handful of ragged breaths as I regained my diminished Stamina, now down by a quarter bar.

“Did you kill it?” Cutter hissed at me from across the way.

Another deafening roar ripped at the air, answering the question for me.

“I don’t even know what that thing is,” I replied, hooking a thumb toward the library archway. “I think it’s a dragon. A. Dragon. We’re not equipped to fight a dragon.”

“Unlikely,” Amara replied. “Dragons roam only the most distant northern regions, and even there they are rare. More likely a Drake or juvenile Wyvern.”

“Which means what, exactly?” I asked.

“That means it’s a small dragon,” Cutter supplied, and even blurred I could tell he was rolling his eyes.

“Are your defensive wards still in place?” I asked Amara, fixing on her blurred form.

“Yes,” she said with a bob of her head.

“The real question,” Cutter muttered, a nervous edge in his voice, “is whether they’re gonna hold that thing.”

She hefted her bow. “We’ll find out in a moment,” she replied before unleashing a hail of lightning-fast arrow fire at something out of view. A bellowing, reptilian cry of rage rang out as a scaly head thrust into the hallway, jaws snapping ferociously. Up close, the creature was even more terrifying. Its head was a little larger than a horse’s, covered in oily black scales with wicked spikes jutting from the back of its skull like a crown of bony scimitars. The thing had six eyes total, three running up each side of its serpentine face, each glowing with a spectral violet light.

A tag briefly appeared over its head, [Void Terror Drake], before vanishing.

The thing dropped its snout—huffing, grunting, growling—as it tried to fight past some unseen force barrier. A second later, a tremendous snap-crack filled the air followed by a blast of neon-red light—one of Amara’s wards discharging right into the creature’s ugly face. I managed to blink away the purple afterimage of the blinding explosions and found the creature alive, but frozen. Temporarily locked in place by a paralyze spell.

My teammates launched themselves at the Drake almost as one: Cutter leapt on the creature’s outstretched neck, materializing as he sunk twin daggers down at the base of the creature’s skull, earning a critical hit and a hefty amount of backstab damage. In the same instant, Amara let out a thundering war cry as she backpedaled away from the overgrown lizard, firing arrow after arrow into the creature’s pebbly skin. Unfortunately, the Drake was built like an armored tank, and Amara’s arrows didn’t penetrate deeply enough to do any real damage to its overall HP.

I hefted my hammer and joined the fray, triggering a Savage Blow as I lunged forward and smashed my weapon into the creature’s petrified snout. My attack landed like an oncoming freight train, obliterating several of its jagged black teeth, though knocking off only a fraction of its HP. The creature grunted, a snarl of pain building in its chest, but its body was still frozen in place. Wanting to take maximum advantage, I sidestepped left, raking the outside of my bladed Battle Vambraces across its face, before spinning my hammer in a tight arc and jabbing the spiked end into one of the creature’s purple eyes.

Another critical hit.

For a split second, I felt like maybe this battle was going to be a cakewalk after all.

Then, the paralyze spell wore off and the creature swung its head toward me like a wrecking ball of scale and bone, broadsiding me in the chest and tossing me through the air with scornful ease. I flipped head over heels and came down directly on my neck. A crack, as loud as a gun’s report, split the air as stars exploded in my vision and fiery agony cascaded through my body. I tried to cry out as I crumpled to the ground on my back, but found I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

A combat notification appeared:

Debuffs Added

Critical Fall: You have suffered a debilitating spinal injury and are temporarily immobilized and unable to speak. You cannot move or cast spells. Duration, 1 minute.

Internal Bleeding: You have sustained internal bleeding: 3 HP/sec; duration, 1 minute.

That was no good. I was already down to 350 HP, and that internal bleeding would knock off another 180 points over time, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Not even the Health Regen potions at my belt could help, since I couldn’t move to get them. I could only lie on the floor and hope that monster didn’t trample me to death.

The enraged Drake—finally free from Amara’s trap—burst into the hallway, giving me a full glimpse of the thing for the first time: it had a sinuous body, easily twenty-five feet long from snout to tail-tip, with gleaming spikes of bone running along its back. Powerful legs and forearms, each tipped with purple talons, scrabbled for purchase on the grimy ground as it moved. A pair of dark wings, laced with throbbing veins of blue, were folded up along its sides so they wouldn’t hinder its movements in the cramped hallway.

But just one look told me this thing could fly if it wanted to.

I stared on in silence as Cutter clung to the creature’s neck, methodically jabbing his blades home over and over again, drawing viscous purple blood, which splattered against the walls every time he pulled his daggers free. The Drake thrashed and bucked, veering left, then careening right, its head flailing about as it smashed into the tunnel walls, fighting to dislodge the scrappy thief. The whole while, Amara continued to drive arrows into its scaly flesh—a small forest of quills now protruded from its flanks and wings.

Cutter pulled one blade free and strained forward in an attempt to drive the dagger into the Drake’s vulnerable eyes, but the creature was smart. Smart and ready. It dropped low as Cutter moved, unbalancing the thief, before surging up, scraping its shoulder along the wall. Cutter let out a muffled curse as the earthen tunnel tore at his face, dragging him from the back of the Drake. He landed on the floor with a muffled grunt, dazed and suddenly exposed. The creature didn’t waste a moment: it wheeled around, surprisingly agile for such a large animal, and grabbed Cutter in its monstrous jaws.

Huge teeth sunk into Cutter’s middle, chomping down as he cried out in agony. His face contorted in a grimace of pain as bright red blood burbled out from his lips, and his HP bar plummeted like an incoming asteroid. A frantic surge of panic raced through my body: this thing was going to kill Cutter, and if he died, there’d be no respawn for him. He’d be gone for good. Cutter wasn’t exactly a nice person, but he was the closest thing I had to a friend in V.G.O.—barring Abby, who I wasn’t even sure was alive—and I couldn’t imagine him dying like this.

But there was nothing I could do except watch. Not for another thirty seconds.

SEVEN:

Contest of Wills

Suddenly, Amara blurred past me, leaping over me in a single bound, then sprinting for the Drake. She raised one arm high in the air, and in a puff of shadow, an obsidian spear formed in her hand; the weapon gleamed in the dull light and burned with spectral fire. Amara screamed out a challenge as her feet touched down—a taunt that immediately drew the Drake’s focus. Her other hand flashed out, pulling a small glass orb from her belt, which she smashed into the ground, releasing a cloud of sooty smoke that made it nearly impossible to see anything.

The cloud lasted for only a few seconds, but by the time it cleared, Amara was already vaulting through the air, flipping gracefully like an acrobat.

She came down directly on the Drake’s back, screaming again as she used the momentum of her fall to drive her conjured spear all the way through the creature’s scaly hide. The shaft cut through muscle, bone, and sinew like a hot knife through butter, exploding through the creature’s stomach and continuing downward, driving into the floor, literally pinning the Drake in place. Wow, that was a ridiculously cool move, which had to be some special skill in her Huntress class. Needless to say, I was impressed. The massive Terror responded accordingly, tossing back its head in a thundering bellow of pain and hate. Cutter—weak as he was—seized the brief window of opportunity and managed to shove himself from the creature’s jaws, dropping to the ground.

He was free, but in bad shape: his HP bar was flashing manically, and blood liberally coated the front of his leather armor and pale skin.

The Drake, in turn, fought in a frenzy to free itself from Amara’s spear, but nothing did the trick.

Once more, the Drake was stuck in place. Realizing the futility of its struggle, the creature turned its gaze back on Cutter, who was tirelessly dragging himself out of the monster’s reach. The creature’s jaws flashed out again, but Amara was quicker. As the Drake’s jaws descended, a thin wire appeared in her hands—some sort of extra-long assassin’s garrote, maybe—and she slipped it around the Drake’s snout. With a fierce yank, she pulled the creature up short, reining the beast in like an unruly horse.

Meanwhile, Cutter continued to slug his way across the passageway, leaving a smear of gore behind him as he cast furtive glances at the death-dealing Void Terror.

I didn’t know how long Amara would be able to hold the thing at bay, but I was betting it wouldn’t be for long. Thankfully, feeling rushed into my body a heartbeat later—the stupid battle debuffs finally wearing off—leaving me severely weakened, but mobile again. And not a second too soon. The spear, running through the Terror, cracked, groaned, then snapped, pieces of conjured obsidian flying out like shrapnel before the weapon dissolved into a pile of harmless powder. The Void Terror’s many eyes narrowed while its cruel black lips curled back from its fangs.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was grinning.

It lunged forward, swiping out with one talon-tipped hand, ready to reclaim Cutter and end him for good.

I was already up and sprinting, but there was no way I’d get there in time—not without access to my Shadow Stride ability—so instead, I unleashed an Umbra Bolt. My impromptu attack splashed against the Drake’s clawed limb, swatting the paw aside, buying Cutter another few seconds of life. I closed the distance in a blink and dropped into a feet-first baseball slide at the last instant, bringing up my warhammer on instinct. My feet connected with Cutter—he screamed out in pain—and the force of my blow pushed him well away from the Drake’s deadly reach.

At the same time, I turned my body and managed to catch an incoming talon swipe on the shaft of my weapon, barely saving my own neck.

I looked up from the floor and caught the creature’s many eyes. Like with the wolf Void Terror I’d first encountered upon entering the mine, the Drake’s gaze froze me in place. It trapped me as effectively as any spell could. And, as before, I felt that same twinge of connection, of recognition. The creature’s eyes bored into me, they dissected me into neat pieces ready for examination. This time, though, a prompt appeared in the corner of my vision:

You have initiated a Contest of Wills with a weakened Void Terror. Would you like to cast the conjuration spell Terror Bound in order to complete the Contest and attempt to bind the Void Terror Drake?

Note: if you successfully capture the Void Terror Drake you will utilize your (1) Void Terror ability slot; if you fail, you will immediately be sent for respawn.

Accept: Yes/No?

“Yes,” I hollered, making sure to keep eye contact with the creature looming over me.

There was a rush of power, like the discharge from pent-up static, followed by a brief flare of violet light. Time crept to a standstill—a sensation I was familiar with, since the same thing happened when I triggered my Shadow Stride ability—and a strange ball of energy, no larger than a softball and wavering from gold to red then back again, formed halfway between us. The orb just floated there, doing absolutely nothing. I didn’t want to break my gaze with the domineering Drake, but the ball was too curious not to look at.

A quick glance gained me a new popup:

Binding Orb of Will

The Binding Orb of Will is pure will manifested, summoned from the Outer planes; it is often used to settle Contests of Will, since it responds solely to willpower. Each combatant seeks to direct the Orb toward their opponent through force of will alone, but only the strongest will shall prevail.

I hastily read over the notice and dismissed it with a blink—unfortunately, when I opened my eyes again, the binding orb was a foot closer to me, and it let off the heat of a small personal sun. If that thing touched me, it would melt the skin from my face and leave me supremely dead. I turned all my attention to the orb, focusing on it, refusing to blink while I threw my will to survive against the strange magic. I pressed at the orb with all of my strength and determination. For a long beat, nothing happened, but then … Then, it lurched toward the Drake.

Maybe only an inch or two, but movement nonetheless.

The Drake growled in reply, a deep rumbling in its chest.

I just sniffed, buckled down, and focused ever more intensely on the ball: picturing it inching closer and closer to the creature in my mind’s eye. The Contest of Will felt like a tug-of-war—a constant push-pull—which seemed to drag on forever and a day, even though I knew it’d actually been less than a minute. Perspiration quickly broke out along my forehead and rolled down into my eyes, creating a sharp sting that tried to distract me from the battle at hand. But I refused to lose this fight. Too much was on the line, and more than that, I wanted this Drake as my own.

Getting a Void Terror Drake as my first minion would be just too cool, and it was possible I’d never get another opportunity like this again. These things probably weren’t all that common.

So I hunkered down and pretended I was doing chest compressions. CPR is physically exhausting work, and demands an almost trancelike focus. Really, this wasn’t that different. So, I fell back on what I knew. I conjured that trancelike state I was so used to and willed the orb toward the Drake while I hummed the beat of “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees in my head. We stayed locked in combat for another minute, the Drake steady and unwavering. After another minute, however, the creature began to fidget with restless, nervous motion.

And then the Orb of Will began to slowly and steadily drift its way. An inch. Then two … A quick spurt, and suddenly the ball was only a foot away from the creature’s maw. For the first time, I caught what might have been a look of genuine concern in the beast’s glowing eyes. It thrashed one last time, opening its mouth to roar, and that’s when I knew it was game over. As the Drake’s jaws stretched wide, the orb darted forward like an arrow, disappearing down the creature’s dark gullet. The roar died in the Drake’s throat, only half-formed, as the creature began to quiver, to shake, to crack.

Bands of golden light, twisted with braids of molten red fire, erupted through the cracks in the Drake’s flesh, and then, in one final display of power, the creature exploded in a shower of brilliant light.

I flopped onto my back—Stamina drained, breathing labored and painful, weary down to the bone. As time resumed its normal flow, a pair of alerts flashed in front of me:

x1 Level Up!

You have (35) undistributed stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (8) unassigned proficiency points! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

Secret Quest Alert: Taming the Void Terror

By binding your first Void Terror, you have completed a secret Shadowmancer Quest—Taming the Void Terror. In return for your hard work, you have received 12,000 EXP and your overall reputation has increased with both the Dark Conclave and the Shadow Pantheon. You have also unlocked an Achievement: Void Terror Trainer!

Notice: Congratulations, you have successfully captured a level 29 Void Terror Drake!

Restriction: You are currently level 24! Because your Void Terror has a higher level than you, it may not be mounted and will likely ignore your orders in battle. It may also attack friendlies when summoned.

Notice: You have used your only Void Terror ability point.

Notice: Would you like to name your new creature? Named creatures are far more likely to form strong bounds with their owners; oftentimes this special link confers limited telepathy with the summoned familiar.

Accept: Yes/No?

I read over the first notice again, frowning at the restriction. What good was it to have a familiar I couldn’t use? From the sound of things, if I let my new monster out, it would probably attack me instead of the bad guys.

After a long pause, I simply shrugged, too tired to care. It was annoying, but that restriction wouldn’t last forever—I’d survived the transition, so eventually I’d surpass the Drake’s level and then I’d have a powerful ally in my corner. A little patience would set things right. I focused on the last part of the notification: a name. Since there was an obvious benefit to naming my new familiar, it only made sense to do so. Not to mention I didn’t relish the idea of calling him Void Terror Drake for the rest of my life.

I only thought about it for a second, then smiled to myself. “Devil,” I said, thinking of the pudgy, dour face of the bulldog I’d had growing up. Devil had been a stout, muscular dog with a mean bark and a worse bite—unless, of course, you were family. If you were family, then he was the sweetest slobber monster on the planet. My dad hated pets on general principle, but as a former Marine, he’d had a certain soft spot for bulldogs, which he’d never quite been able to shake.

“Congratulations, you may now summon Devil utilizing your Void Terror ability,” said a pert voice—polite, vaguely British, and female. Sophia. I knew the voice in my ear wasn’t the V.G.O. goddess of order I’d met briefly a few days back, but it still set me on edge.

“What did you do, Shadowmancer?” Amara asked, her masked face popping up above me, knocking away my uncomfortable thoughts of the powerful Overmind. Before I could answer her first question, though, she added another: “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” I wheezed, waving one hand dismissively through the air. “Take care of Cutter—I just need a breather and maybe something to eat. I’ll explain what happened later. Just get Cutter.”

EIGHT:

Good News

We sat around a makeshift campfire in the disheveled library, munching on slabs of spicy, roasted spider meat, everyone taking a few minutes to breathe and recuperate from our bout with the Void Terror Drake. Cutter was recovering well now, almost back to his usual self, but it’d been touch and go for a little while. By the time Amara had gotten to him, he’d practically had one foot in the grave: his HP bar had been strobing violently at less than 10%, and he’d boasted a myriad of debuffs—Broken Ribs, Punctured Lung, Internal Bleeding, Blunt Trauma—all incrementally sapping his life away.

Bad, bad shape. A couple Health Regen potions and a hearty meal set him mostly right, but it had been an awfully close call.

I watched the thief as I ate.

I’d only known him for a week, and already I’d seen him suffer more punishment than any IRL person could ever endure. He took another bite, then winced and clutched at his ribs as if even eating was a terribly painful experience. Cutter wasn’t a nice person exactly, but I still felt bad for him; poor guy really couldn’t seem to catch a break. I shoved the thought away as I took another bite, savoring the smoky flavor and the hot grease, before uttering a muted burp.

Cutter arched an eyebrow, then promptly issued his own eye-watering belch in retaliation, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “Now that’s a proper belch,” he said, before taking a long pull of bottled mead. Amara gave us both sidelong glances, then shook her head and snorted in what almost sounded like amusement, which was new and unexpected. I’d spent more time with the Murk Elf Huntress than I’d strictly wanted, and so far, she’d proven to be humorless and extremely rough around the edges. She was like Oscar the Grouch, if Oscar had military training and a penchant for stabbing things.

It was nice to see a chip in her otherwise frigid exterior. Maybe there was a real person in there after all.

Something pinged in my ear, a new personal message. Quickly, I pulled up my user interface and scrolled over to my inbox—a grin immediately broke out across my face. A new message from Abby. Finally. I took one last bite of meat, then flicked a piece of chitinous shell aside as I brushed greasy fingers on my pants and pulled open the message.

Personal Message:

Hey Jack, it’s me. Hope everything’s okay—I know I’ve been out of reach longer than we’d planned on. Things got messy at the Grand Archive in Alaunhylles. I thought going dark would make me harder to find, but Carrera and his people somehow managed to track me down anyway. Otto and I barely got out of there with our heads intact, and we still didn’t turn up anything on that Faction Seal. Hopefully, things have been better for you. Hopefully, you transitioned okay. Anyway, Carrera’s thugs are still looking for us and we could use a safe place to hole up. Assuming you’re alive and getting this *fingers crossed*, where are you?

—Abby

I read and reread the message, lips pursed as I thought.

If Carrera had already managed to track her down, we didn’t have much time left. Even if she managed to get out of Alaunhylles without further complications, it wouldn’t take long for Carrera to figure out my connection to Abby, and then? Well, then, he’d come hunting for me too. We needed to use the Faction Seal before that happened, and we also needed a game plan if we wanted to keep our heads above water.

Still, even with all of the baggage Abby brought, it was a relief to know she was okay. I didn’t have many friends here in Eldgard, and it would be nice to have someone from the real world that I could trust and commiserate with. Plus, she was smart, savvy, and a way better strategist than me, and that was exactly the kind of person I needed in my corner. Not to mention, she was cute.

“Everything okay, Jack?” Cutter asked.

I held up one finger, just a second, and wrote a hasty reply:

Personal Message:

Abby,

Wow, it’s good to hear from you … I was really starting to worry. I transitioned a few days ago—very, very, very unpleasant—but I’m alive! I also managed to get an official class, Dark Templar with a kit specialization. I’m currently down in the Storme Marshes, in a Murk city called Yunnam. I’ve got some info on the Faction Seal you’re definitely going to want to hear, but I’d prefer to share it with you in person. Meet me in Yunnam as soon as you can—someone from The Mystica Ordo should be able to port you to the edge of the Ak-Hani-controlled territory. Just watch out for the spiders! See you soon.

—Jack

“Jack, you alright, mate?” Cutter asked again, a mixture of impatience and concern coating the words.

I dismissed the PM and glanced up to find the thief eyeing me askew, his brow furrowed in something that might’ve been worry. “Yeah,” I replied with a nod. “Finally got a message from Abby. She had some complications in Alaunhylles. Aleixo Carrera, the shady dirtbag we ripped off, he found Abby and came after her. She didn’t give me a lot of details, but apparently she and Otto got away more or less intact and now she’s looking for a safe place to hide while we get things straightened out. She should be on the way, so let’s finish this quest up and get back to town ASAP.”

“Yes,” Amara said with a firm nod. “We’ll need to dispatch the scouts—otherwise your friend may well end up dead, impaled at the bottom of a pit.” My face reddened slightly at the remark, which was clearly a jab at Cutter and me. After breaking free from the [Spider Queen] and her brood, Cutter and I had ineptly stumbled headlong into a spiked pit, which had almost killed us both. Not one of our proudest, most competent moments.

“All right,” I said, gaining my feet with a tired groan. “I’ve still got a few pounds of ore left to gather, so why don’t you guys take it easy, maybe pick through a few of these books, then we’ll go.”

Cutter screwed his face up in distaste. “I’m not sure if you heard my list of job qualifications earlier, but librarian isn’t in my skill set either. I’m not really a book person,” he replied, then paused for a long beat. “But, you’re the boss, I suppose. Also…” He trailed off and looked away, refusing to meet my eye. “Also, before we get caught back up in the swing of things, I just wanted to say thank you for saving my arse back there. You and Amara, both.”

He shot a look at the Huntress and gave her a tight-lipped smile, which she tentatively returned. “Generally,” he continued, “I’m not great with this kinda thing, but you two risked a lot for me. Put your lives on the line. There’s not a lot of folk in the Thieves’ Guild that would do something like that for anyone—especially a royal pain in the arse like me—so it means a lot.” He grunted, cleared his throat, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Now, how’s about we get working before we all start blubbering like a bunch of wee girls, eh?”

I simply stood there, flabbergasted by Cutter’s words. Just when I thought I had him figured out, he somehow managed to surprise me. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering if he was real or not; he was an NPC, but maybe that was a term that didn’t really fit. I’d done a lot of late-night reading lately, and there were a lot of rumors flying around the various game wikis and forums about the uncannily realistic NPCs. Some very smart people—governmental computer scientists, groundbreaking physicists, and engineers of all stripes—seemed to think the NPCs were self-aware. After all, they reasoned, V.G.O. had millions of IRL human brains mapped out in exquisite detail, so why wouldn’t the Overminds just replicate the same layout for NPCs? If that were the case, they would essentially be as “real” as any of the downloaded players, even if they were unaware of the greater world outside V.G.O.

“You’re welcome,” I finally said, trying to fight off the laundry list of existential questions running through my head. He gave me a curt nod as I turned and headed for the hidden chamber secreted away in the back of the library.

It took me another twenty minutes to collect the remainder of the hundred pounds of Raw Darkshard Ore I needed for the quest, but Cutter had been right about stumbling upon the motherload. The hidden chamber—formerly the lair of the Void Terror Drake—held at least another four or five hundred pounds of the stuff, and that was assuming the ore deposits didn’t replenish over time. The chieftain had said the Void Terrors lived off the metal, munching on it like snack food, so maybe the giant stock of ore was the reason my new pet, Devil, had grown to such a hefty size.

Unfortunately, there was no type of teleport, so we had to trek all the way back to the entrance, which cost us another hour, but thankfully this time no Void Terrors tormented us along the way. Now that I had the ability to capture Void Terrors, though, I was silently hoping the creatures would eventually respawn. I’d never really enjoyed the summoner classes in general, but having a few creatures like Devil in my arsenal could be a game changer.

We exited through the same shimmering portal we’d entered through, and quickly backtracked up the gloomy mineshaft to the surface.

“What the bollocks?” Cutter exclaimed, shielding his eyes against the glare of sunlight as we stepped through the dilapidated mineshaft entryway and into the forest beyond. He squinted, blinking sporadically, working to adjust his eyes to the bright noonday light. “But …” He paused, glancing up at the blue sky above, then back toward the mine. “But we were in there”—he waved a hand toward the cavern—“for hours. Five or six at least …” He paused again, lifting a hand as he counted on his fingers. “It should be close to dark, but I’d say we haven’t lost more than an hour or two. What the bollocks?” he asked again, confusion evident on his face.

I looked around, studying the sky above. He was right. Given the amount of time we’d spent below, the sun should’ve been dipping below the horizon, but instead it was looming almost directly overhead.

“It is the Shadowverse,” Amara said nonchalantly, as though stating a truth so self-evident any five-year-old would know it. She glided forward, moving for the trees. “The time, it moves differently in that place,” she said, halting for a beat and staring at us. “It moves faster. Sometimes much faster. An hour in there may be only minutes here. This is a thing everyone knows.” She fixed me with a level stare, canting her head to one side. “You of all people should know this, Shadowmancer. Now, you said time is of the essence, so let us move.” She turned without waiting for a reply and quickly picked her way into the thick foliage, slipping through the forest on silent feet, leaving us no choice but to follow in her wake.

Amara set a demanding pace, not giving us a chance to talk or do much other than chase after her through the woods, but we did make spectacular time. It was just after 1:00 PM when we stumbled back into Yunnam, sweaty, out of breath, and grimy from the day’s work. Despite being relatively early—at least according to my user interface—I was weary to the bone. Exhausted down to my core. We headed into the city via the west gate and made our way through the town in search of Chief Kolle. Even after spending several days here, I still hadn’t gotten used to the strange buildings or the irregular, sprawling layout of the place.

Instead of being built in any sort of organized grid like most towns or cities, Yunnam was constructed among twisted, hulking, moss-covered trees. And the structures themselves were odd things, each sitting high above the ground, precariously perched on wooden stilts: a safeguard from the monsoon rains that came in the late fall. The homes and shops were constructed from an amalgamation of wood, mud, and palm fronds, all cobbled together with bits of leather, swatches of luminescent moss, and gobs of silvery spider silk, which still gave me the chills whenever I saw it.

I’d never forget the giant spider that tried to cocoon me alive.

We received friendly nods from idle clansfolk as we meandered through the town. They’d distrusted me and Cutter at first, but their wariness had faded after I’d managed to slay the Moss Hag, earning myself the title of Maa-Tál in the process. Strangely, the townspeople had also taken a certain shine to Cutter even though he wasn’t Dokkalfar, a Dark Templar, or even a generally decent human being. As far as I could figure, they’d sort of adopted him, and now they treated him like a bumbling, incorrigible, but loveable village drunk.

It was a genuine mystery to me, but a useful one.

It took us another ten minutes of walking, and a few quick conversations with the locals, to track down the chief. We found him on the east side of the village, speaking with a hunched, white-haired Murk Elf with a bad limp, named Som. Som was also the name for a type of lumpy, extremely sour pink fruit that grew in the swamps. Som the man was lumpy and extremely sour too, so I thought his name was spot on. The old elf held an unfurled sheet of parchment with intricate building schematics sketched out in painstaking detail, which he glanced at as the chief talked.

Som—aside from being old, lumpy, and sour—was also Yunnam’s chief architect.

“I understand your reservations,” the chief was saying, his arms folded behind his back, “but we need to have it done, Som. And fast. I don’t care what it takes.”

“But two weeks!” the old elf grumbled, glancing between his blueprints and the palisade wall in turns. “No, sir. Nope. We don’t have the manpower, and even if we did, we don’t have the resources—”

“Enough,” Chief Kolle said, holding out one hand as though to halt the onslaught on protests. “You’ll figure it out. You always do. And I have someone working on the resources. Ah”—he turned, catching sight of us as we approached—“speak of Thanatos and so he shall appear.” He waved a hand at us, his eyes narrowing as he took in our dirt-caked skin and blood-covered armor. His lips quirked into a faint smile. “I take it the ‘ore grind,’ wasn’t quite as easy as you were anticipating?” His barely-there smile grew just a smidge.

“There were a few complications I hadn’t planned on,” I admitted, glancing away as red crept into my cheeks. “But we got the ore,” I finished, “and I also managed to bind my first Void Terror.” The last, I added with a slight shrug, as though it was hardly worth mentioning.

“Excellent,” he said, coming over and clapping me on the shoulder, not even trying to hide his smile now. “The Dark Conclave will be pleased with your progress, Grim Jack.” He stepped back and rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “I was right about you,” he mused after a time. “There’s a lot of raw potential in you, boy, if only I can train you to unlock it.”

“Here,” I said, reaching into my sack, selecting the Raw Darkshard Ore, then triggering a transfer with the chief. He accepted gratefully, and a new notification appeared before me:

Quest Alert: Gather Raw Darkshard Ore

You have successfully gathered the 100 pounds of Raw Darkshard Ore needed to construct several Arcane Shadow Cannons. In return for your effort, you have received 15,000 EXP, schematics for the Arcane Shadow Cannons, and increased reputation with the Dark Conclave and the Shadow Pantheon.

“There’s more, Father,” Amara piped in. “The woman, Abby, has sent a message. She will be porting to the edge of our territory sometime today. In the interest of our people, I’d like to assemble Baymor and the others for an escort mission.” She paused, her violet eyes flashing in annoyance. “We would hate to have our long-awaited guests end up as food for the Mairng Mong.”

“Yes, of course,” the chieftain said, waving a dismissive hand at her. “See the woman safely here. Now, Jack.” The chief turned back to me. “You and Cutter look quite ...” He paused, lips stretched into a thin, disapproving line. “Disheveled. You also stink worse than the pigpen. Perhaps you should bathe and rest before your guest arrives—I have a feeling we have a very long night ahead of us.”

NINE:

Reunion

A sharp bang, bang, bang, which lingered in the air like an unanswered question, jarred me from an uneasy nap. I blinked my eyes open against the low firelight filling the small room Cutter and I shared. Slowly, I propped myself up on my elbows and surveyed the room through a sleepy haze as I fought to get my thoughts in order. I smacked dry lips, shook my head, then sat all the way up and rubbed my palms into my eye sockets. After a few seconds, my vision adjusted to the sparse light. Cutter was asleep on a small pallet in the corner, his limbs splayed out like a starfish while he snored contentedly.

I wasn’t sure when he’d gotten back—last time I’d seen him, he was at a tavern, throwing down glass after glass of mead, drunkenly delighting the townsfolk with tales of his derring-do. “Celebrating,” he said when I asked what he was doing. What exactly he was celebrating, however, was a bit unclear.

Hastily, I pulled open my user interface and glanced at the time—it was creeping up on 6:00 PM, which meant I’d been asleep for a little over two hours. Still early, then.

After getting back from the mines, I’d cleaned up in the communal bathhouse—furiously scrubbing away the dirt and blood with a thick bar of soap—before venturing over to a local crafter to get my gear looked at. Most of my armor was well above average, but that didn’t make it immune from the ravages of everyday wear and tear, not to mention ferocious battles with fire-breathing shadow dragons. Well, shadow Drakes, I suppose. After turning my Night Blessed Armor in, I’d grabbed a bowl of sticky rice—a Murk Elf specialty—for a little snack, then headed off for some well-deserved shuteye.

Two hours was not nearly enough sleep.

The knock came again, this time louder and more insistent. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. “Grim Jack,” came the chieftain’s deep voice. “Amara has returned with your friends. They’re currently eating a meal over at my dwelling.” He paused thoughtfully. “If you’re too tired,” he said, “I can see them to guest quarters and you can meet in the morning.”

His words came like a sharp punch to the gut, and I was on my feet in seconds, my weariness forgotten in a flood of excitement. “Just a second, Chief,” I called out as I hustled over to Cutter. For a heartbeat, I considered just leaving him be, but then decided against it—he’d be pissed to high heaven if he thought I was trying to cut him out of the new faction. “Let me just wake up Cutter and we’ll be right out.”

I nudged the thief in the ribs with the toe of my boot. “Cutter,” I said, prodding him insistently. He snorted, mumbling something about bollocks and morons before turning onto one side, offering me his back. “Cutter.” I planted a sharp kick in his exposed kidney. He shot up in an instant, hands going for his twin daggers as he instinctively searched for threats.

When he spotted me looming over him, he visibly relaxed even while a deep frown crept across his face. He glared at me and held up one hand to shield his eyes from the sparse light. “Gods, my head,” he grunted, reaching up and rubbing at one temple. “Might have overdone it a bit with the drinking. It’s that damned Law-jiu these Murky bastards drink. Doesn’t even taste like alcohol, but a couple pints’ll knock you arsewise quicker than a pissed-off Risi.” He paused, massaging his temples more thoroughly. “Also,” he continued, “not sure where you hail from, friend, but word to the wise: here in Eldgard it’s bad form to wake a man who’s sleeping off a bender. It’s a good way to get shivved.”

I crossed my arms and tapped a foot impatiently on the floor, unmoved by his threats. “They’re here, Cutter. Abby and Otto are finally here, so pull yourself together.” The words sobered him up rather quickly, and in next to no time, he was on his feet and slinking toward the door, muttering “we’re gonna be filthy, filthy rich” the whole time.

The chief was waiting patiently for us at the bottom of the wooden staircase, leaning casually against the trunk of a twisted surgham tree. “Good to see you both up and ready,” he offered tersely. It only took us a few minutes to make our way to the chief’s tree—a fat, gnarled thing with giant boughs branching off from the trunk, clawing at the sky like an army of withered fingers. Great ropes of moss clung to every branch and twig, pulsing with a soft light.

We mounted the stone steps winding their way up the tree’s face and followed the chief through a squat door situated in the tree’s enormous trunk. Although the outside of the tree was rather—let’s say rustic—the inside was surprisingly comfortable: The furnishings were all lovingly made of dark wood and polished to a dull glow. There were lots of bookcases, loaded down with ancient tomes, a handful of weapon racks, and a spattering of glass display stands, holding a myriad of interesting artifacts. At the far side of the room was a low, intricately carved table, surrounded on all sides by pillows, which served as seating for the Murk Elves.

I still hadn’t gotten used to eating my meals while seated cross-legged on the floor, but maybe I would someday.

Amara and another Murk Elf Ranger—a lean man with whipcord muscle named Baymor—lounged on the pillows, their terrifying hunting masks sitting next to them as they sipped on large glasses of the popular Law-jiu. The distinctive mango scent of the drink gave it away in an instant. Another man, a beefy Risi warrior in gleaming plate mail, likewise sat on the pillows, mug in hand, seemingly lost in thought: Otto, Abby’s traveling companion and NPC pal.

It was the woman leaning casually against the wall, staring out the back window, who drew my eye, though.

She was short and curvy with dark skin and an intricate pile of brown curls bunched on top of her head. Last time I’d seen her, she’d been sporting an elegant bloodred robe studded with shimmering jewels, but now she wore a frumpy brown dress that looked like novice starting gear. She turned and broke into a wide grin, dimples blossoming in her cheeks as she saw me. Then, before I could get a word in, she was dashing across the floor with her arms outthrust. She barreled into me, hitting me hard in the gut, then threw her arms around me in a bear hug, which was surprisingly forceful for someone so small.

“Jack, you have no idea how good it is to see you,” she said.

“Good to see you, too,” I wheezed as she hugged me even tighter. “But maybe you could reduce the enthusiasm of your hug—I think you’re breaking bones.”

She chuckled into my chest, gave one more perfunctory squeeze, then loosened her death grip, sliding back a step so she could get a good look at me. She smiled, then reached up and wiped a tear track from her cheek. “Sorry,” she said with a tired, lopsided smile, “it’s just been a really shitty couple of weeks. I was so happy when I got your message, but it’s not the same as seeing you.” She reached over and poked me with a finger as though double-checking to make sure I wasn’t some figment of her imagination.

“Seriously,” she said, reaching up and tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear, “it’s so good to see you. You have no idea.” She paused, eyeing my gear, her gaze lingering on the warhammer before passing on to my specialty vambraces. “You look good, Jack. I mean it. More grown up somehow.” She reached over and patted me on the chest. “But enough of that. As much as I’d love to get drunk and celebrate, we’ve got some business first. So much has happened,” she continued, “and from what I’ve gathered from our gracious hosts”—she gestured at Amara and Baymor—“you’ve been making some serious waves around this little slice of paradise.” That last word practically oozed sarcasm.

She was going to be in for a heck of a shock when she realized Yunnam was where we were going to be living from here on out.

“The Firebrand is right,” the chief piped in from behind me. “You have much to discuss, I think. Amara, Baymor, let us give our honored guests some privacy.” He shot me a knowing look, then dipped his head as the Murk Elf Rangers gained their feet. Amara and her friend offered us curt goodbyes, before disappearing through the door and into the night. The chief, though, lingered at the entryway.

“Jack,” he said, staring at me through squinted eyes, his forehead creased with worry, “should you and your friends decide on a course of action, please let me know. I have a queasy feeling in my gut that time is running out, and it would be best to move as soon as possible. Just intuition”—he patted at his stomach—“but I have learned to heed such feelings when they come.”

With that, he turned and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving me, Abby, Otto, and Cutter to our own devices.

“That was weird,” Abby said, quirking her head and pointing toward the closed door. “What did he mean?”

“Where to even begin?” I said, running a hand over my short beard.

“Why don’t I start?” Abby asked, sliding next to me and hooking her arm through mine. “Things are turning into a real shitshow out there, and I’d rather you heard everything from me first.”

TEN:

Wanted

Abby, Cutter, and I plopped onto the cushions surrounding the low table, joining the taciturn Risi warrior. “Otto,” I said politely with a bob of my head.

“Grim Jack,” he replied in turn. “I see you and the thief have made some significant inroads here.” He stopped for a beat, carefully regarding me and Cutter, sizing us up. “Not an easy thing to do,” he finally said. “The Maa-Tál and the Dark Conclave are notoriously suspicious of outsiders. Part of the reason they still remain free from Viridian masters. Well done.”

I just stared at him, stunned. That was the longest conversation I’d ever had with the man, and he’d complimented me. “Uh, thank you,” I replied, feeling a bit unsure of myself. “So, you guys want to fill us in on what happened in Alaunhylles?” I asked, switching the topic before things got awkward and weird.

Abby crossed her legs and leaned back against her palms. “God, what a mess,” she said before uttering a tremendous sigh. “I thought we’d have a lot longer before Osmark figured out what we did, especially since I went dark, but boy was I wrong. We caught a portal to Harrowick without a hitch, but as soon as we got into Alaunhylles, things started going downhill fast. The city gaurds were antsy. Looking for Rebel insurgents, from what we were able to gather from half-heard whispers and the merchant rumor mill.”

“Then I started asking ’round,” Otto interjected. “I have connections with the Rebel Underground over in West Viridia, and it didn’t take me long to turn this up.” He paused, opened a satchel at his side, and pulled out a tightly bound scroll. Carefully, almost reverently, he unrolled the thing, stretching it tight before holding it out for us to see. Abby’s mugshot stared at us from the page. Two pictures: one of her straight on, the other of her in profile. I reached out and carefully took the scroll.

I read it once. Twice. Three times for good measure.

Wow. This was bad, bad news.

First, that reward … 1,000 gold marks came out to the equivalent of a hundred grand—a small fortune to most people, which would certainly turn the pressure up in a big way. How could it not? And second, how in the world had they caught on so quickly? Sure, it stood to reason that Carrera had already discovered he’d been ripped off, but that didn’t explain how he’d managed to trace the deed back to Abby so quickly. On the plus side, there was nothing about me listed in the “Known Accomplices” section, which meant we still had a little time left before they put all the pieces together. I sighed in resignation and handed the scroll over to Cutter, who was currently craning his neck in an attempt to get a peek.

“How do you think they figured it out?” I asked as Cutter accepted the paper with a thanks.

Abby shook her head, her hair dancing wildly at the motion. “I honestly don’t have a clue. As far as I know, personal information—account info, location, all that stuff—is almost impossible to access by anyone other than the person themselves. All profile information is encrypted using asymmetric key cryptography and is then circulated nonstop through the Overmind databases. All of them.”

Everyone present stared at her with blank, uncomprehending expressions. For Cutter and Otto that made sense, given they weren’t actually aware of the world or technology outside of V.G.O. To them, her words were probably as incoherent as a foreign language, but sadly, it also meant approximately nothing to me either. I was a casual gamer, not a computer expert by any stretch of the imagination. “Which means what exactly?” I asked, trying not to sound like a complete moron. “Maybe you could just break that down into laymen’s terms?”

She scrunched her nose and see-sawed her head left, right, left, right. “It’s complicated,” she said after a second. “Okay, basically, all personal profiles are constantly moved through a giant, mind-blowingly-advanced onion-router controlled by the Overminds. All of the Overminds, working together to keep the info safe and free from tampering.”

“Wait,” I said, frowning. “Why would Osmark do that? Give up so much power, I mean. He’s interested in ruling V.G.O., so it seems like he’d want a way to control unruly citizens—like maybe wiping them from Eldgard …” I let the statement hang in the air, heavy with implication.

Abby looked away, worrying at her bottom lip. “Maybe they do have that capacity,” she finally admitted with a shrug, “but …” She paused, turning toward me. “But I don’t think so. The admins used to be able to boot people and wipe accounts, but those functions were eventually turned over to the Overminds, which sort of makes sense to me.

“I mean, sure,” she continued, “if Osmark and his pals made a weapon that could permanently wipe us, it would be powerful, but once a weapon like that exists, what’s to stop someone from hacking the system and turning that weapon against the ruling class? I could be wrong, but I think something like that’s too dangerous. As far as I know, only the Overminds have access to personal info—and it’s not like they could do anything with it.”

My mouth was suddenly dry. Abby still didn’t know the Overminds were self-aware. My mind flashed back to a conversation I’d had with Sophia, who was basically the in-game goddess of order and balance. She’d told me that her sister Enyo—the Overmind of discord, responsible for generating in-game conflict—had sided with Osmark and his lackeys. Enyo was using them as chess pieces to sow discord into the world, creating new and interesting content for players. Was it possible Enyo was already interfering? Or was this somehow Osmark’s doing?

I didn’t know, and at this point I wasn’t really sure it mattered.

“It’s always possible Osmark had someone comb through my work files,” Abby offered, staring off into the distance. “Starting with all files connected to Aleixo Carrera and that restricted area we ransacked. I’m a decent hacker, but not good enough to hide my tracks. If someone was looking, they’d find my digital fingerprints all over those files.” She absently ran her palms along her frumpy dress. “That’s the most likely answer.”

I nodded, hoping she was right. “So once you guys realized the guards were looking for you, did you take off or did you try to access the Grand Archive?” I asked.

“Despite the risk and against my advisement,” Otto said, giving Abby a hard, sidelong glare, “we pressed on with our mission. I had a friend—an Archivist who works for Loremaster Petraeus—sneak us in after hours. We scoured the shelves for hours, searching for any piece of lore that might tell us the purpose of the Faction Seal, but to no avail. Without the help of a proper Loremaster, the quest was doomed from the start.” He was speaking to me, but it almost sounded like the words were meant for Abby.

I glanced at her, and noticed she was looking everywhere but at Otto—if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was blushing sheepishly. I knew from experience that it was really hard to make Abby blush—which meant things must’ve gone spectacularly wrong to earn that kind of reaction.

“A full detachment of Imperial Inquisitors turned up as we were trying to slip away,” Otto continued after a beat. “Things turned”—he faltered, grimaced—“ugly. We spent five days navigating the warren of sewer passages beneath Alaunhylles before eventually escaping up the coast for the Crossing.”

Cutter snorted at the comment, then lowered the wanted poster. “You blokes should’ve taken me with you. Everyone looks down on us thieves, until you need to navigate a sewer. Most people don’t think about sewers—bunch of piss and shite other people like to forget—but not thieves. I’ve got massive connections to the Smugglers Union. They’ve got branches in every major city and could navigate those sewers blindfolded.”

“How helpful,” Otto replied, staring at Cutter with a flat, unamused look. “I’ll keep your services in mind next time I feel tempted to wade through knee-deep sludge, thief.”

Cutter arched an eyebrow at the Risi, then shrugged. Touché. “Quick question, though,” Cutter said, holding the wanted poster back up, eyes once more scanning the contents. “I noticed this wanted sheet lists High Commander Carrera as an immediate point of contact. Funny thing”—Cutter absently scratched at his chin—“but that name sorta rings a bell for me. I don’t suppose this High Commander Carrera is in any way related to the sod we robbed a few days back, eh?”

I shared an uneasy look with Abby. “It’s the same guy,” I said reluctantly.

“Ah, I see,” Cutter replied, lips turning down into a scowl. “Well, I think I’ll just go feed myself to the bloody Spider Queen—that’ll be a far more merciful death than what the Inquisitors will do to us.”

I stared at him in silent shock for a long beat. “I feel like I’m missing something. I’ve never even heard of the Inquisitors—who are they?”

“They’re monsters, Jack,” Cutter said, solemn and serious for once. “That’s pretty much all you need to know. This Carrera bloke must be a new appointment, but no one gets that job without being depraved in the head. And not depraved in a good way, like me. The evil kind of depraved. The Inquisitors were created to sniff out sedition and stomp out the Eldgard rebellion—lots of Holy Templars in their number. At least that’s what they tell everyone. Really though, they’re the emperor’s personal enforcers. Cross the emperor and the Inquisitors will disappear you.” He snapped his lanky fingers. “Poof. Gone just like that. And no one will ever see you again.”

He leaned forward and drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table, tat-tat-tat. After a spell, he sighed and stood, removing his leather armor, then slowly pulling back his tunic. A series of puckered white scars crisscrossed his belly. They were old wounds and deeply faded, but still noticeable. “That lot likes to carve folks up. Make ’em talk whether they’re guilty or not. And they have special weapons”—he lightly traced a finger over the patchwork of scars—“that make it so you don’t heal right. You’ll carry their brand with you forever, assuming you live, which you probably won’t.”

I looked away from the wounds. Cutter wasn’t real, I tried to remind myself. He was an NPC, created when I came into existence. That didn’t really happen, he hadn’t actually been tortured by the Inquisitors—those memories were planted in his head. Still, I glanced away because those scars made me awfully uncomfortable. Maybe it hadn’t actually happened, but those memories were certainly real to him. I noticed Otto giving the wounds a thorough inspection; a glimmer of familiarity seemed to linger in his gaze. Maybe he’d had his own experience with the Inquisitors.

“That makes sense,” Abby said, breaking the tense silence. “That Osmark would appoint someone like Carrera to that position. Most of the people on his team are politicians, tech whizzes, and business leaders—not exactly the kind of people who are comfortable getting their hands dirty. But I read up on Carrera. He’s a killer. A glorified trigger man who worked his way up the ranks of a drug cartel in Colombia. Definitely the kind of person who doesn’t mind getting bloody. The real question now is, what do we do next? How do we move forward knowing what we do?”

“I think I might have an answer for that,” I replied, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my thighs. “I think it’s time you heard my story.”

I promptly launched into a retelling of the events that had happened since our raid on the restricted zone. I explained about my Maa-Tál initiation ordeal, then filled them in on what the chief had told me about the Faction Seal. Abby and Otto both grilled me like a pair of detectives interrogating a murder suspect, stopping me every few seconds to pull out more information. Once they were finally satisfied about the Faction Seal, I filled them in about my surreal encounter with Sophia.

“I always suspected the Overminds were more advanced than anyone gave them credit for,” Abby mumbled, her eyes hazy, distant, introspective. “I mean that was never my department—the folks designing those things were freaking genius—but I always believed they were probably sentient. With the kind of power they have access to, how could they not be?” She looked worried.

“Do you think we can trust this Sophia?” Otto asked after a time. “I’ve never been one to have dealings with gods and goddesses. Too fickle for my tastes.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t know,” I admitted with a grimace. “But even if we can trust her, I’m not sure how I feel about being anyone’s pawn.”

Everyone was silent for a long time. Thinking. Digesting all the new info.

“Well, at this point, I really don’t think we have much choice,” Abby said eventually, “not if we want to survive the next few months. I’m not sure how this is all going to play out in the long run, but short term, I think the way forward is clear. We need to talk to Chief Kolle and form a faction, and we need to do it soon. Before Carrera can track us down and take the seal back.”

“You’re sure that’s the best thing to do?” I asked tentatively. “I mean, hypothetically, we could go anywhere and form a faction. Maybe someplace like Rowanheath would be a better option. Someplace bigger. With more pull and resources.”

She shook her head slowly, once more worrying at her lip as she ran her palms over her burlap dress. “I can’t say I’m a huge fan of the Storme Marshes, but there’s a reason why this place is still a free city. Rowanheath is great. So is Harrowick—but the empire already has a strong presence in both places. We’re going to be badly outmatched, and we need every edge we can get.” Her face hardened in resolve. “No, I don’t see what other choice we have.” She took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Let’s go found a faction.”

ELEVEN:

The Keep

I pulled open the door, ready to run down the steps and find Chief Kolle, but I didn’t have to look far: he was standing on the wooden platform directly in front of me, hands in front of him, rocking nervously back and forth on his heels. “You’ve decided, then?” he asked, his brow knitted in concern.

“Yes,” I said with a nod. “We’ve talked it over and we think Yunnam is the best place for us to form our faction. We’d like to take you up on your offer to host us, assuming the offer is still good.”

The chief blew out a deep breath as a slight grin broke across his face. “Of course the offer is still good,” he replied, before coming over and clapping me on the shoulder—a fatherly gesture, which was oddly touching. “I was starting to worry, Jack. For a time, I was sure you would move on to greener—less swampy—pastures and leave us to our own devices. It does my heart good to know you’ve made this choice.”

I paused and cocked my head to one side. “Just out of curiosity,” I hedged, “why are you glad? Does it benefit Yunnam to have a faction in town?”

He folded his beefy arms across his chest and regarded me solemnly. “The Storme Marsh cities have managed to avoid the greedy clutches of the empire for longer than anyone—save the Accipiter of the Barren Sands, far to the west—but we are not invulnerable. Mostly, we have kept our freedom because the empire was concerned with the Wodes. But with Rowanheath and Harrowick under heel, it will only be a matter of time before they turn their sights on us. With a powerful faction at our backs, though, maybe we’ll stand a chance against them.”

“Whoa,” I said, holding up both hands in defense. “I don’t know how powerful we’re going to be. So far, I can count the number of our potential faction members on one hand.”

“Even so,” the chief replied, “I believe in you, Grim Jack. What’s more, Faction Lord is not merely some trumped-up title—it confers certain powers that can make even our small band a formidable force. Besides, once you found a faction, you will not remain small for long. Factions draw travelers like flies to honey, which can be a tremendous boon for a town’s economy—especially in a place like Yunnam where few outsiders are likely to visit without an immediate quest compelling them to do so. Yes, this will be good, I think.”

“Well, you sold me,” I said with a shrug before drawing the golden Faction Seal from my bag and presenting it to the chieftain.

He froze and stared at the coin, a look of puzzlement flashing across his rough-worn features. “What are you doing?” he asked quizzically.

“Giving you the seal so we can start our faction,” I replied.

He smiled and then broke out into a hearty, deep-bellied laugh, grasping his sides as he doubled over. After a handful of seconds his mirth subsided and he righted himself, rubbing away a trail of tears with one finger. “Put that away. I cannot complete your request.” He shook his head as though this should be obvious. “I am a guide. I can but show you the way. Come.” A new quest alert flashed before me:

Quest Alert: Founding Father

Congratulations! You have acquired a Faction Seal and have initiated the secret Faction-Founding Quest, Founding Father. To proceed, escort the chief and his honor guard to the ancient Darkshard Keep in the hills overlooking Yunnam and present your Seal to the Keep Guardian.

Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret

Quest Difficulty: ?

Success: Present your Faction Seal to the Keep Guardian of an appropriate Keep and found a Faction. Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani must survive!

Failure: Chief Kolle dies before presenting your Faction Seal to the Darkshard Keep Guardian.

Reward: ?

Accept: Yes/No?

I accepted the quest, dismissed the screen, then followed the chief down the steps, not knowing what to expect.

Amara was waiting for us below, surrounded by Baymor and a pair of Rangers I didn’t know. They looked sort of familiar, but it was hard to tell since all the Rangers wore those strange skull masks, which hid their faces from onlookers. Baymor held my Night Blessed Armor—fresh back from the local crafters—which he presented to me with a grunt. Apparently, wherever we were going was dangerous enough to require my gear. The chief waited for Cutter, Abby, and Otto to join us at the foot of the stairs before giving the Rangers a curt nod—a simple gesture that seemed to communicate much more.

“This way,” Chief Kolle said, sweeping out an arm, then stepping off.

The Rangers fell into two columns, flanking our little party on either side like an honor guard or executioners leading someone to the gallows. I felt a flutter of panic in my belly.

We moved through the village, making for the western gate in silence, the crunch of our boots on gravel the only sound. We didn’t spot a single villager on the way out, which was strange in itself—what’s more, all of the houses we passed were shut up tight, their windows shuttered against the night. It didn’t take us long before we left the town completely behind, emerging into the thick jungle surrounding Yunnam, then bearing west, closely following the route we’d taken to the mine earlier in the day.

It took us twenty minutes of hard hiking through thick tree cover before we stumbled upon a pair of ragged and worn stone piles, which might’ve been boundary markers or an entry gate in a different, long-forgotten age. “Almost there,” the chief muttered, an uncharacteristic flutter of anxiety in his words. “It should be just over the next rise.” He jerked his head toward a steep hill directly ahead of us. I let out a deep sigh. I wasn’t an outdoors guy by any stretch of the imagination, but the “rise” was definitely more of a mountain: one which seemed to climb up and up and up. The chief, his Rangers, and Otto, with their high Stamina levels, would probably tackle it with ease, but I just knew it was going to wear me out.

“Let’s just get it done,” I said, slipping forward and starting the painful ascent.

It took another half-hour to make the climb—which even boasted a vertical rock wall we had to scale like spider monkeys—and by the time we crested the top and broke onto a flat plateau, I thought my thudding heart and pumping lungs would burst from the sheer exertion. I dropped onto my ass the second we were clear and immediately grasped my knees as I pulled in great lungfuls of air.

Next time I invested Attribute Points, Constitution was definitely getting a bump. After a few seconds, I could mostly breathe again and scrambled to my feet—that’s when I caught my first glimpse of what had to be our intended destination. The place loomed dead ahead: a sprawling complex of dark stone, pointed spires, and yawning, lifeless windows, poking up through the jungle canopy.

“There she is,” the chief said, noticing my far-off gaze. He swept a hand toward the structure in the distance. “That, my friends, is the Darkshard Keep of the Nangkri. Earlier today, you visited a long-abandoned mine that once belonged to the Nangkri Dynasty, but that ore shaft isn’t the only ancient relic littering these hills.

“In days now deep in the shadow of history,” he continued, “the six Named Clans of the Dokkalfar—the Ak-Hani, the La-Hun, the Lisu, the Karem, the Chao-Yao, and the Na-Ang—were unified under the banner of the Jade Lord, ruler of the Nangkri Dynasty. Five hundred years ago, or more, that was. There were six Keeps, one for each of the king’s brothers, who ruled over each of the six clan cities. Those were different days. Glorious days, before the coming of the Downfall.” He fell silent, his face twisted in pain at the words.

“What’s the Downfall?” Abby chipped in breathlessly as she moved next to me and slipped an arm around my waist, leaning on me for support. She could probably stand to invest a few more points in Constitution as well.

The chief stopped and glowered at her, then slashed a hand through the air. “A thing we don’t talk about,” he said more coolly than I’d ever heard out of him. After a long beat, the hard lines of his face finally softened. “My apologies, honored guest”—he offered her a slight bow in contrition—“it is something of a cultural sore point, I suppose you could say. A painful reminder of better times. Perhaps, when you’ve dwelt among us a while longer, I will feel comfortable enough to speak on it.”

Though the chief didn’t explicitly say so, I got the sense there was definitely a quest relating to the Downfall, if only I was patient enough to wait. I already had a supremely good reputation with the clansfolk of Yunnam, but maybe I needed to elevate my reputation with the Dark Conclave or the Shadow Pantheon before he’d spill the beans. That was fine, though. I could wait. I already had enough on my plate, and I certainly didn’t want to risk pressing him and losing the option of a future quest chain, so I held my tongue and shot Abby a let it go look.

The chief shook his head and waved one hand through the air. “None of that matters. Ancient history best forgotten. But, one of those keeps still sits vacant in these hills—overlooking Yunnam far below. After the Fall, the land came under a curse, and now the place is desolate. It is the haunt of a powerful land spirit, called a genius locus, set to guard the ruins by the last inhabitants of the Keep. Our people do not venture there—no one ventures there. It’s a death sentence to any wayward adventurer.” He faltered and gave me a quick once-over. “Unless, of course, you have a Faction Seal …”

“Wait. So, you’re telling me we’re going to ransack the ancient ruins of a long-dead empire that no one’s visited in five hundred years?” Cutter asked. The thought should’ve been daunting, but Cutter sounded excited. “I don’t suppose in any of your legends, there’s some mention of a vault or a royal treasury, eh? Any place where these royals of yours might’ve stored priceless artifacts or mounds upon mounds of gold coins?”

“Oh, there is treasure,” the chief replied solemnly. “I am sure of it, though of what sort, I cannot say. As a headstrong youth, I once tried to explore those ruins, but the demon spirit nearly sent me into the Great Beyond. This time, though, will be different. Like the Keep, the Faction Seals are relics from a different age, and the Genius Locus should recognize the seal and allow Grim Jack to take possession of the Keep and establish his faction. Either that or murder us all.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “What will be, will be. Now come, it’s a bit further yet.”

I found myself lost in thought as we threaded our way forward. In a way, everything the chief had said made a strange sort of sense. Rowanheath had a monstrous keep, so why wouldn’t the other cities have something similar for players that chose those locations as their seat of power? Aside from the chief’s tree, there wasn’t really any place in Yunnam which would be a good fit for a giant, well-fortified faction base. And it also made sense that the Devs would create some sort of especially fierce boss to keep unwanted explorers from ransacking those Keeps before the rightful owners could claim them.

Something rustled off in the bushes not far away, drawing me from my thoughts. Instinctively, I reached for my hammer, but before I could even pull the weapon from the frog at my belt, Amara fired an arrow—a brief squeal followed, then silence. Maybe Amara wasn’t super friendly, but she was very good at killing things, and I was glad she was on our side. We shoved our way through a thicket of moss-covered palm trees, ducked beneath a tangle of low hanging vines, and broke into a clearing, offering us our first unobstructed look of the Keep.

“Holy Bollocks of Banztantium,” Cutter muttered, needling me in the ribs with his elbow. “Jack, we just hit the absolute jackpot. I knew sticking with you was the right move.”

Generally, I tried not to agree with Cutter on anything, because he was a terrible human being with the moral compass of a pit viper, but this time I agreed wholeheartedly. My jaw was practically dragging on the ground as my inner gamer greedily rubbed his mitts together in anticipation.

The place was run down and dilapidated—creeping vines clung to the walls, piles of rubble lay strewn across the ground, water had pitted and stained the stone—but the Keep was huge. Way bigger than I’d first thought. It wasn’t some puny military garrison, long forgotten. No. This was a castle. At least as big as the fortress overlooking Rowanheath. Maybe bigger. And it was fit for a king, or at least it had been once, before time got ahold of it. Cutter was right, this place had to be loaded down with loot, just waiting for an adventurer bold enough to go in and take it.

On a more practical note, the Keep was also in a supremely good defensive position.

There was a stone wall, twenty-five feet high, surrounding the place, ringed by a wide moat, full of boggy swamp water, which was probably teeming with gators and other Storme Marsh horrors. A series of dilapidated guard towers poked up along the wall, offering great sentry positions, and the main tower—jutting up like a hitchhiker’s thumb from the Keep proper—would allow us to see for miles and miles. Yeah, this would be a great place to set up shop if we could get things cleaned up and operational.

Assuming, of course, the Keep’s guardian didn’t massacre our party first.

TWELVE:

Guardians

We crossed the moat via a stone bridge, then passed under a huge archway with a retractable metal portcullis hanging overhead like a guillotine blade, ready to drop at a moment’s notice. Onward we went into a wide courtyard lined with various stone outbuildings, which were all equally devastated—worn down by both time and weather—and in need of some serious TLC. Everyone moved in edgy silence, eyes constantly scanning the landscape in search of whatever threat lived here.

As in the Darkshard Mine, the feeling of unseen eyes began to follow us as we moved deeper into the ruins, making for the Keep. The intensity grew and grew the further into the complex we went, like a palpable weight bearing down on us, eager to crush us into paste. Something was definitely watching us—some unseen and unfriendly resident—and I absently wondered what I’d find if I triggered my Shadow Stride ability and stepped into the Shadowverse. Would I crash into an army of Void Terrors stalking our every movement? Or would I come face-to-face with something even worse?

I shivered at the thought, remembering how much trouble the Drake had caused us.

At last, we moved through another graceful archway set into an inner wall, which separated the Keep from the rest of the long-dead ghost town. Before us was a castle, though not of the blocky medieval-Europe variety like Rowanheath boasted. No, this was vaguely oriental in design and looked closer to a Buddhist temple from a bygone era. Instead of angular stone fortifications and hard, sharp lines, this place was all rounded edges, flowing curves, elegant spires, and artfully carved stonework depicting fantastical beasts and epic battles.

A set of weather-beaten steps led from the courtyard to a colossal set of sealed doors, big enough to admit a herd of elephants.

“I think, perhaps, it is best if you go ahead from here,” the chief said, glancing around apprehensively as he readjusted his grip on a stout walking staff, which I figured doubled as his primary weapon.

“I agree completely,” Cutter said, quickly slinking behind me so I was basically a human shield. For a moment, I didn’t move, but then Cutter helped me out by giving me a little shove.

“I’m going, I’m going,” I snapped, glaring at him over my shoulder. I took one last, deep, calming breath, then moved through the ranks of our squad, edging past Amara and Baymor until I was in front. Alone. I inched closer to the Keep, and placed one tentative foot on the stairs.

My toe had hardly touched down when a thunderclap rocked the night accompanied by a brilliant flash of scarlet light, which left me reeling and disoriented. At first I thought it was actually some sort of freak lightning storm, but as I took a quick glance around, I saw huge columns of unnatural fire erupting from the ground in a circle around us, hemming us in. The deafening cacophony of light and sound continued unabated for another few seconds—then, in a blink, everything ceased as quickly as it had begun.

Now, however, we had company.

We were completely surrounded by a host of hulking guardians, called [Keepers], built from stone, earth, bone, and moss. They were crude humanoid beings that stood nine feet tall, and half as wide, with enormous earthen muscles. Their arms were as big around as telephone poles, and so long that their rocky knuckles dragged in the dirt. Their legs, by contrast, were squat and powerfully built, meant for strength, not speed. Gleaming spikes of bone, wood, and Darkshard ore studded backs, shoulders, and forearms, offering them some serious protection against potential attackers.

I spun in a slow circle, counting our mean-looking visitors: twenty-five of them. A three to one advantage in their favor. Very bad odds. Maybe even impossible odds.

I gulped, suddenly terrified, and hesitantly reached into my bag, ready to retrieve the seal and beg these things not to crush us like bugs. Before I could get the disk out though, the creatures opened their mouths and let out a chorus of bellowing war cries, a thunderous clamor that sounded like an earthquake given voice. Then, while we all stood shocked and unprepared, the creatures charged, their huge stone legs churning like truck pistons as they ate up the distance between us.

In an eyeblink, everyone was moving.

Otto surged forward, throwing himself in front of Abby as one of the hideous, earthen monsters lashed out with a rocky fist, which shifted and morphed into a gigantic spiked mace as it sailed through the air. The Risi warrior narrowly diverted the blow, before sidestepping right, whipping his sword around in a flash of steel, and slicing at the creature’s middle. The blade clanged against rocky armor with little effect. It didn’t matter, though, because while the creature was distracted, Abby darted into the open and threw both hands forward, conjuring a cannonball of flaming earth and churning magma.

Her attack landed like a sledgehammer of force and fire; the intense heat obliterated one of the creature’s legs, leaving it wobbling unsteadily.

I wheeled around and launched an Umbra Bolt into the face of a Keeper barreling toward the chief—except I hardly even recognized the chief. His normal leather armor was gone, and now he wore heavy plate mail constructed entirely of pale white bone, inscribed with gleaming emerald runes. The guardian lurched left as my attack landed, temporarily blinded. The chief, clad in his terrifying gear, took advantage of the opening; he twirled his staff overhead, before smashing it into the staggering creature’s rocky skull. A crack of pale-green light exploded as the weapon landed, and I watched in amazement as the Keeper started to decay in double-speed: the moss and plant matter holding it together promptly withered and died as stone crumbled away into fine dust.

In no time, the Keeper was little more than a pile of stone, bits of yellowed bone, and rotten plant matter. Damn. That was super cool.

From the look of things, Chief Kolle didn’t really need my help, so I spun, searching for a new target. I found one—it was shooting toward me like a freight train. The creature threw a punishing haymaker at me, powerful enough to crush my face if it landed. I dropped low, letting the swing whizz over my head, before surging forward and smashing my hammer into the creature’s center, triggering Savage Blow. The Keeper’s torso cracked, a fissure running up its front, but it hardly seemed to care or even notice. A mean left uppercut landed in my ribs, lifting me from the ground and knocking the wind out of me—along with a fifth of my HP.

I staggered back from the blow, easily dodging a slow-moving kick, and lashed out with my warhammer again, smacking at an exposed wrist. The creature roared in pain as its whole hand disappeared in a puff of rocky debris. I hadn’t killed it, but I’d bought myself a few seconds.

“I could use some help over here,” Cutter hollered over the din of battle. I stole a quick glance over one shoulder and saw the thief spinning, weaving, and twirling through a group of guardians ten-strong. He deftly ducked wild punches and avoided devastating kicks while slicing and dicing his way through the crowd. He was doling out some minor damage, but his bladed weapons were far from ideal for creatures like these. Worse, the Keepers were slowly boxing him in, preventing him from slipping away from their clubbed fists.

In another minute or two, they’d be in position to pummel him to death.

The Rangers were standing in a tight ring—the four of them fighting back to back—and both Amara and Baymor were firing volley after volley of arrows at the hulking beasts attacking the nimble thief. They were shooting improvised specialty arrows tipped with little round vials that exploded on impact and covered the Keepers with biting acid. The sludgy green goop chewed through stone and bone with ease, while dealing out some significant DPS along the way. Nice.

I threw out my free hand, casting Umbra Bog on the group surrounding Cutter—thick strands of inky shadow erupted from the earth; tendrils of black stretched up and ensnared crushing hands and stomping feet, giving Cutter a chance to slip into the clear. My generosity, though, cost me precious seconds, and when I turned back, a giant stone fist clocked me in the jaw. An explosion of white-hot pain erupted in my face as I dropped to the ground like a bag of rocks, groping at my ruined and bloody mouth. A new combat notification popped up in the corner of my vision:

Debuff Added

Fractured Jaw: You cannot speak and cannot cast mage spells; duration, 2 minutes.

That was annoying, but the pain was far worse than the actual debuff since none of my Shadowmancer abilities required spoken chants or incantations. A giant foot sailed toward me, and I rolled left, throwing caution to the wind as I triggered Shadow Stride. Up until this point, I’d been hesitant to utilize the ability, afraid of the possibility of running into a bloodthirsty mob of Void Terrors, but I badly needed a breather. Time lurched to a standstill around me, and the descending foot froze in place along with the rest of the world.

With a painful sigh, I pushed myself upright, taking a quick look around, searching for potential enemies. Nothing. No Void Terrors. So next I searched for anyone who might need a helping hand.

The Rangers were frozen in various stages of combat, some nocking arrows, others preparing to release. Otto was statue-still, his blade poised to cleave through a guardian’s outstretched arm. Abby had her hands outstretched, a gout of white-hot fire erupting from her palms. During the brief combat, the chief had somehow managed to summon a trio of shambling zombie-worgs and a small army of rickety, weapon-wielding skeletons. Cutter was frozen midair, a manic grin splitting his face as he attacked a stone guardian stupid enough to offer its back.

Everyone was doing as well as could be expected, so I carefully circled to the outside of the creature that’d sucker punched me in the face, dropped into Stealth, and lined up my shot. I took a few practice swings for good measure, my semitranslucent hammer whooshing harmlessly through the Keeper’s head. Satisfied, I gave a nod and emerged from the Shadowverse, time resuming with an abrupt lurch. The creature in front of me finished its bone-crushing stomp—except I was no longer on the ground. I unleased a devastating Stealth attack as the creature’s foot landed, which earned me a critical hit. The hit was solid, like a batter knocking one out of the park, and the creature’s head simply vanished in an explosion of dirt and stone.

Gone. Dead before its body ever hit the floor.

I wanted to shout in celebration, but we were still badly outmatched and I also had a broken jaw, so there’d be no celebrating for another few minutes. I turned, ready to throw myself back into the fray, when the grounded rumbled in violent protest and a geyser of red-and-black light exploded from the earth, trapping me in a dome of writhing energy.

Debuff Added

Jailed: Your party has been trapped and is unable to move; duration, 30 seconds.

“Enough!” a voice roared, louder than a bomb blast. I stole a look around, urgently searching for the source of the shout. Like me, everyone in my party was trapped in energy-domes, but strangely, the stone guardians had also stopped their assault. The Keepers that remained—eighteen of twenty-five, despite our best efforts—simply milled around, shuffling listlessly from giant foot to giant foot, waiting for something.

A thud from the Keep drew my eye.

One of the stone guardians had appeared at the top of the Keep’s steps … well, sort of. This new Keeper had the same basic features of the smaller guardians, but it was at least a foot taller and a foot broader across the shoulders; elegant rune-script, pulsing with a dull red light, covered its giant arms, legs, and torso. It also bore a gnarled staff in its oversized hands, which was covered in even more of the odd glowing script. This new arrival stared death and destruction at me from the top of the stairs, as though it knew this whole debacle was somehow my fault.

Slowly, the Keeper descended, his blocky feet thumping with every step and his staff clacking against the worn stone. Thump, clack. Thump, clack. Thump, clack. At last, it stood before me, or rather, towered over me, since I had to crane my neck up to get a look at it. A tag briefly flashed above its head before vanishing: [Darkshard Golem: Brewald]. The creature slumped forward, leaning on its staff, staring at me for another long moment, sizing me up and filing away every inch of me in painstaking detail.

Finally, it spoke. “Know this, Traveler. Only one who bears the Sacred Relic of the old kingdom may venture here.” Its voice was deep and sludgy like the sound of a burbling mudslide. “Now,” it continued, extending one giant hand, “name your purpose and present the Relic or perish.” The conjured barrier around me faltered and faded, leaving me exposed before the creature. I tried to tell him my purpose, but my jaw flared with pain and I found no words would form.

THIRTEEN:

Crimson Alliance

The stupid Fractured Jaw debuff was still in place. I mumbled a bunch of unintelligible gibberish, which only seemed to make the creature angry. I urgently pointed at my chin, but the Golem didn’t seem familiar with charades, so instead, I scrambled at my pouch with shaky hands.

After a second of fumbling around, I drew out the seal, holding it up for the Golem to see, before it could turn me into messy blood splatter. The creature’s glowing gaze fixed on the disk like a dog spotting a delicious bone. For being such a powerful and ultra-rare artifact, the seal really wasn’t much to look at: a simple gold plate, about the size of an antique CD, with the image of a noble-faced man in profile on one side and a huge tree on the other. A Latin inscription ran around the disk’s edge—Imperatorius Factio Signum on the top and Domini est Terra on the bottom. Carefully, I edged closer to the guardian, not wanting to piss it off, then slipped the relic into its outstretched palm.

The Golem’s hand snapped shut, the disk vanishing in a blink beneath its stony digits. “And your purpose?” the creature prodded. I waited for another few seconds, pointing at my jaw. The creature glowered at me, but there was nothing I could do but wait. Finally, the Fractured Jaw debuff disappeared, and I felt my jaw pop back into place with a crack. I sighed in relief, rubbing a hand along my chin.

“Your purpose?” the creature asked again.

“I want to form a faction in Yunnam,” I replied, mustering all the conviction I could. “I want to claim this Keep,” I finished, hoping my words wouldn’t offend this monster.

The guardian stared at me with intense scrutiny for a long beat before finally turning toward the chief, who lingered behind me. “You are the current chieftain of Yunnam?”

The chief crept closer, flanked by an entourage of undead, until he stood shoulder to shoulder with me, and inclined his head. “Indeed.”

“Do you give your assent to let this man”—the creature swept his free hand toward me—“form his faction in your lands?”

“I do,” the chief replied solemnly, bowing his head in respect.

The creature grunted monosyllabically, nodded, then thumped the butt of his staff against the ground—a flare of light exploded outward from the runes in the wood, and once the light faded, the other Keepers were simply gone. Disappeared back to wherever they’d come from in the first place. Then, the Darkshard Golem turned in a lumbering circle and started back up the steps. “Follow,” he boomed, not bothering with even a cursory glance back to see if we complied.

Up our party went, trailing after the strange creature, pausing briefly at the top of the stairs, waiting as the doors swung out of their own accord. Silently, we headed into the Keep’s interior, me and Abby in the lead, with the others sticking close behind us.

The Golem trudged ahead, unconcerned as he escorted us through a large banquet hall—festooned with tattered banners, badly rotted tables, and a series of huge chandeliers suspended overhead—before passing into a connecting hallway at the far side of the room. We trudged by more hallways and a host of empty rooms, which we’d have to explore when we had a little more time. I caught Cutter casing each room in turn, his gaze sweeping over closed chests as he greedily rubbed his hands together.

The Golem, however, ignored those areas as though he’d walked these halls a thousand times and had no interest in the treasures scattered throughout this place. Finally, we hooked a right and headed down a long hallway studded with wall-mounted candelabras that burned with sickly green flame. Even more hallways branched off from this one, some leading to storage areas, others to what looked like training grounds of some sort. Still, our escort ignored them all, soldiering onward until the hallway finally dead-ended at a spiral staircase, which shot straight up into the air, the stairs quickly twisting out of view.

We climbed up and up and up, the echo of our footfalls filling the tight staircase. After what must’ve been ten flights of stairs, we came to a circular room at the very top of the largest minaret. At some point in the distant past, the roof had caved in, giving us an unrestricted view of the night sky above. The silver moon smiled down while a thousand twinkling stairs winked their approval at us. Welcome home, they seemed to say.

Several windows, set into what remained of the walls, looked out onto the jungle below, which stretched out all around us like a lush blanket covering the land. Tucked away in the dense canopy far below were the warm, yellow lights of Yunnam—I could see the whole city from here, including the chief’s tree, jabbing up defiantly into the sky.

I was never one for heights, but the view was truly spectacular.

“Wow,” Abby said, slipping an arm around my waist, snuggling up to me. “This place is incredible. Can you believe this is going to be ours?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, not knowing what to say to that. This whole experience was more than a little overwhelming—my whole life, I’d lived in a run-down apartment that wasn’t much bigger than a broom closet. To know this place, even as decrepit as it was, was mine? It was mind blowing.

“I formally welcome you to the Darkshard Keep,” boomed the Golem, drawing my eye. The creature stood on the far side of the circular room, staring out over the land below, his giant hands clasped behind his back. With great, ponderous steps, the guardian turned toward us. “I am Brewald, the embodiment of Darkshard.”

“The embodiment of Darkshard?” Abby asked hesitantly.

“Probably means he’s the butler or something,” Cutter said, swaggering into the room like a peacock. “Are you the butler?” Cutter asked, fixing the creature in his sights.

The creature fell silent, his monstrous gaze flashing in anger.

Amara was next to Cutter in a moment, planting a sharp elbow in the thief’s ribs. “Forgive the ignorant fool,” Amara said, offering the Golem a graceful bow, eyes averted to the floor in reverent respect. “He is a true outsider and does not know the old stories.”

“Hold on a minute,” Cutter replied with a scowl, crossing his arms as he stared daggers at the Huntress. “First, I’m no fool, and second, it’s not like I was trying to insult the ugly bastard. There’s nothing wrong with being a butler—I’ve known plenty of outstanding butlers—I was merely stating the obvious. It just seems like this bloke is gonna be fetching me mutton and mead.” He paused, and cocked his head to the side. “There will be someone to fetch my mutton and mead, right?”

Amara gave him another tight jab to the ribs. “Brewald is not the butler,” she hissed. “He is the castle.”

“What the bloody hell do you mean he’s the castle?” Cutter snorted, flinging an arm out toward the stone guardian. “I’m staring right at the ugly mook, and he’s not even castle shaped.”

“This guardian,” the chief said, sliding forward and slipping an arm around Cutter’s shoulders like a father admonishing a wayward son, “is the physical manifestation of the castle itself. This land is sacred to us because it is alive, aware, and powered by a tremendous ley line of shadow magic, deep in the ground. Though this place may look like stone and wood, it is actually built entirely from shadow matter, alchemically converted into the Keep you see around you. And this Golem is actually the Keep’s avatar here in the material plane. So”—he faltered, offered Cutter a tight-lipped smile, then gestured toward the creature—“this creature is the vessel through which the land spirit Brewald speaks.”

“Right,” Cutter replied, sounding a bit more nervous than he had a moment before, “so he’s definitely not the butler. Got it.”

“So the castle is actually alive?” Abby asked, awe coating the words. It must’ve been a game feature she was unfamiliar with.

“I tire of this,” the Golem boomed, locking on me with fervent intensity. “You may ask whatever questions you want later. But this is not a place for outsiders or idle chatter. This”—the creature gestured at the room around us—“is the primary command center for the Darkshard Keep. It is the most important area of the Keep. From here you may found your faction, and perform other administrative functions. A word of warning is in order before continuing: Should an opposing faction officer capture this room, they can claim the Keep for themselves, so guard this room with your life. Now, would you like to proceed?” A text box appeared in my field of view:

Quest Update: Founding Father

Congratulations! You have acquired a Faction Seal and have initiated the secret Faction-Founding Quest. If you choose to proceed, your Faction Seal will be destroyed and your faction headquarters will be permanently bound to the Dokkalfar city of Yunnam, located in the Storme Marshes. Doing so will also grant you ownership of the Darkshard Keep.

Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret

Quest Difficulty: ?

Success: Present your Faction Seal to the Guardian of an appropriate Keep and found a faction.

Failure: None.

Reward: ?

Accept: Yes/No?

“Yes,” I replied after reading the update.

The Golem inclined his blocky head and held out his hand, revealing the Faction Seal I’d presented to him earlier. I watched in rapt fascination as the disk rose into air, hovering above the creature’s palm. Slowly, the disk began to glow. To shine. To change. Morphing into a brilliant ball of liquid gold, hanging in the air like a burning star. “What would you like to name your faction?” the creature grumbled, fixated on the floating orb.

I only had to think about it for a second. “The Crimson Alliance,” I replied, immediately thinking of my old gaming guild. Abby smiled and nodded her approval.

The Golem extended one stony finger and lightly tapped the floating orb, giving it a little nudge. The thing let out a beautiful clarion ring, then exploded skywards like a rocket bound for the stratosphere, leaving a trail of dazzling diamond light in its wake. One hundred feet it soared. Two hundred. Three. Then, it burst in a spray of light more powerful than any Fourth of July fireworks display I’d ever seen. It was like watching a supernova detonate in low orbit. Our little band of adventurers—even stone-faced Amara—let out a collective Ahh at the magnificent sight.

A second later a notification flashed in front of me:

Viridian Gate Online Universal Alert!

Notice: Traveler Grim Jack Shadowstrider, honorary member of the Ak-Hani clan, has founded the first traveler-owned faction in Viridian Gate Online! Any traveler opposed to the Viridian Empire may now request to join Grim Jack’s faction, the Crimson Alliance, bound to the Dokkalfar city of Yunnam, located deep in the heart of the Storme Marshes.

Notice: Joining the Crimson Alliance instantly lowers a player’s relationship with all Viridian-aligned factions to Unfriendly. Joining the Crimson Alliance instantly raises a player’s relationship with all Rebel-aligned factions to Friendly. Joining the Crimson Alliance entitles members to all Crimson Alliance Faction buffs.

Notice: Grim Jack Shadowstrider is now an exalted enemy of the Ever-Victorious Viridian Empire!

I stared at the notice, mouth agape. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that. Things had certainly escalated more quickly than I’d anticipated. I closed out of the Universal Alert only to be inundated with a slew of other notifications, one right after the other:

Notifications:

- You have just founded a faction and are now the High Commander of the Crimson Alliance!

- You have received the Cursus Honorum (Rank) of Baron!

- You now have access to the Faction Leader Tool Screen!

- You now have access to the Leadership Skill Tree!

- You may now appoint officers to your faction!

- You have gained 1,000 Renown!

- Your relationship with the Viridian Empire has been lowered to Exalted Enemy!

- Your relationship with the Eldgard Rebellion has been raised to Honored!

- You have gained 75,000 EXP points!

- You have received an ultra-rare reward: Blessing of Sophia!

x4 Level Up!

You have (55) undistributed stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (12) unassigned proficiency points! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

That first alert had been a universal player notification—which meant every player, and maybe even every NPC, would’ve seen it—but I felt fairly certain I was the only one who’d received the other notifications. So, I carefully read each item off for the benefit of everyone else in the room. By the time I was done, two new PMs had hit my inbox; the first waited for me in my personal inbox, and the second waited in my brand-new faction inbox. Quickly, I opened my personal interface and pulled up the first message:

Personal Message:

Jack,

I’m glad you finally came to your senses and decided to do the reasonable thing and form a faction. Well done. Unfortunately, I’m quite busy running the universe, but know that I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, even if from afar. But, I don’t want you to think I’ve completely abandoned you to the wolves, so you and your friend Abby have both received a special Blessing from yours truly—a little token of my special favor. My Blessing permanently increases your luck by 15 points, which is no small thing, and should hopefully tip things your way from time to time.

—Sophia

I whistled under my breath, then stole a quick look at Abby. Her eyes were flicking back and forth, as though reading something no one else could see—a look of bewilderment and even shock lingered on her face. After a minute, she gulped, caught my eye, then mouthed we’ll talk later. Yep, she must’ve received a similar message. Without a thought, I closed the message and brought up the new PM in the faction inbox. A tight knot of fear formed in my belly when I saw the subject line of the PM waiting for me: I’m Coming For You. I hastily opened the message, and slowly read it out loud:

Personal Message:

I know who you are, I know what you and your friend Abby did, and now? Now, I know where you are. You’ve made a terrible mistake and an even worse enemy. You’ve never met a man like me before, that I can promise. I’ve murdered whole families for far less than what you’ve done. I’ve publicly executed people and hung their corpses from overpasses for even minor offenses. And now I’m coming for you. For you and your friends. For everyone you’ve ever known and cared about. I will wipe Yunnam from the face of Eldgard. I will murder every NPC and raze every building until there isn’t even a memory of such a place. If you come to Rowanheath and turn yourself in, I will consider sparing your companions. Fail to do so, however, and suffer the consequences. You have until sunset, two days from now, to make up your mind—after that I will come for you.

—High Commander Carrera

“Holy shite,” Cutter said as I finished reading. “We are so royally screwed. What the hell are we going to do now?”

Everyone was quiet for a long time, as if no one dared to break the uncomfortable spell hanging over us.

“We’re going to get busy,” Abby finally said. Her face was pale and waxy, but her voice hard with resolve. With conviction and anger. For the first time, I felt that same conviction and anger brewing in me. Generally, I was an easy-going, go-along-to-get-along kind of guy, but I didn’t like being threatened. I didn’t like being bullied. In high school, I’d been the butt of too many jokes; one of the best parts about growing up was leaving all the high school B.S. behind. But here this guy was—some drug-dealing thug from Colombia—threatening me and the people important to me. I wasn’t going to let that slide.

“Carrera is overconfident,” Abby said. “He’s cocky. He gave us two days because he’s sure we aren’t a threat to him. But we can use that overconfidence to our advantage.”

“Yeah, but where do we even start?” I asked, running a shaky hand through my hair.

Abby paused for a moment, then glanced over at the Golem. “Maybe we should ask him,” she said.

FOURTEEN:

Initiate Tutorial

I turned toward the Golem, not quite sure what to say. “I don’t suppose you have some sort of tutorial for us, do you?”

Surprisingly, the creature nodded, his face flat and solemn, then held out one hand, palm up. For a beat nothing happened, but then emerald light began to bleed from his rocky flesh, coalescing into a globe of brilliant light the size of a beach ball, twirling lazily above the Golem’s hand as we watched. “Faction leaders have a tremendous number of tools at their disposal,” the creature intoned. As he spoke, the twirling glob of light began to change and stretch, unfurling like a flower’s petals, until a hazy interface screen hung in the air for everyone to see.

“First, as Faction Leader, you have the ability to access the Faction Leader Tool Screen, which offers you numerous options. From this menu, you can appoint officers, accept new members into your ranks, and set the rules and ordinances that govern your faction.” The creature gave a slight shake of his hand, and suddenly the hazy interface simmered, shifted, and morphed again: now we saw a new screen, labeled Darkshard Keep. “From there, you can also access the Keep’s interactive menu, used for making updates and upgrades to the compound.

“As the chieftain mentioned, this Keep sits above a powerful ley line, which constantly feeds me energy. Using alchemic spirit magic, I can directly tap into that power and convert Dark energy into physical matter. Here”—with his free hand he pointed to a number, 17,000, sitting in the top right corner of the interface—“is the amount of current Dark energy I have in my reserve. The ley line generates approximately 1,000 points of Dark energy per day. Using this menu, you can select different Keep features, which can be built or upgraded by investing these Dark energy points.”

An interfaced button labeled “Keep Features” flashed, and suddenly a huge scroll-down list of options appeared, along with a point value for each item:

- Water Well and Reservoir, 350 pts
- Kitchen, 1,200 pts
- Stables, 1,500 pts
- Alchemy Lab, 3,800 pts
- Internal Teleport Hub, 1,750 pts
- External Teleport Hub, 2,500 pts
- Armory, 1,800 pts
- Master Suite, 950 pts
- Guard Towers, 700 pts (each)
- Exterior Wall, 50 pts per 100 feet
- Training Grounds:

—Archery Range, 2,500 pts

—Melee Combat Arena, 2,500 pts

—Sorceress Laboratory, 2,500 pts

—Agility Course, 2,500 pts

On and on the list went. I whistled in awe and ran my hand along my jaw as I thought, scratching absently at my scruffy beard. Wow. There were hundreds of rooms, items, and features to choose from. Hundreds of thousands worth of points in potential upgrades available to us. On top of that, there was even a “Keep Guard Creator,” which would allow me to upgrade the Keep’s existing guardians and even unlock other types of faction-friendly mobs—Giant Moat Leeches, Roving Keep Hounds, Pit Fiends.

Even with the seventeen-thousand-point surplus currently available to us, if the Keep only generated 1,000 points of energy a day, it would take years to acquire every potential feature and upgrade this place had to offer.

“Is there any way to increase the number of points generated each day?” Abby asked, seeming to read my thoughts.

“No.” The creature shook his blocky head. “But Raw Darkshard Ore is a naturally powerful source of Dark energy. I can convert one pound of raw ore into 3 spendable points.” Hmm. That opened up some interesting possibilities—maybe I needed to reconsider that mining profession after all. Before I could think any more about that, however, the Golem’s magical projection shimmered and changed again.

Now a giant skill tree hung suspended before us. “In addition to the Faction Leader Tool Screen,” the Golem intoned, “your faction also has its own Level and Leadership Skill Tree. All skills and abilities selected from the Leadership Skill Tree will be uniformly applied to every member of your faction. Each faction starts off with six Leadership Points to invest; you will earn five additional points at each subsequent faction level—though be warned, gaining faction levels is incredibly difficult and time intensive.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The Universal Alert had briefly mentioned that all Crimson Alliance members would receive faction buffs, but I hadn’t fully understood the implications at the time. But this was a huge advantage—depending on what choices we made, our faction members would have some significant advantages over other players. I paused … but that also meant the other factions would have some nasty extras as well—surprises we’d need to take into consideration when making our plans.

“How does leveling for the faction work?” I asked.

“Factions level up in the same way as all of Eldgard’s citizens,” the creature replied placidly. “By accumulating experience points and hitting level targets. Faction experience points can be earned in a number of different ways: Recruiting new members grants a certain number of points, as does upgrading features in the Keep. The most effective way, however, is through the EXP tax. Faction members gain a number of benefits from joining, but in return, you may tax both their experience and loot—redirecting a portion of each into the faction reserves. How much you tax, if at all, is up to you. With that said, if you tax too heavily, the faction will level up quickly, but your members won’t.

“Now,” the Golem said a bit sharply, gesturing toward the floating skill tree. “There are three distinct branches you can chose from—Battle-Craft, State-Craft, Merchant-Craft—or you can mix and match from all three, depending on what you want your faction to focus on or specialize in. Unlike personal skills, however, which can be upgraded a total of seven times by investing additional Proficiency Points, there is only one available level for each Faction Skill.” The Golem’s glowing light display winked out of existence, leaving a purple afterimage briefly floating in the air. “That is the end of the overview. Do you have any other questions, Baron?”

I paused at the title, not sure how I felt about it, then shook my head. “Okay,” I said, rounding on the others. “So, obviously, I need to induct you guys into the faction, then we should probably start restoring the Keep, write some sort of constitution for our faction, then figure out what to do with our available Leadership Points.”

“That sounds fine, Jack,” Cutter replied, then paused, taking a long look around at the disheveled command center. “But let’s restore this room, eh? All this sounds like the makings of a long and exhausting night, and if we have to hash out all this bureaucratic bullshite, I for one would like to be comfortable while doing it.”

“I second that,” Abby offered, rubbing her hands along her arms, suppressing a slight shiver. During the day, the Storme Marshes were blistering hot, but at night the humidity could make things uncomfortably cool—especially since we were in a giant tower, with a stiff breeze running right through the middle of everything.

“Okay,” I said, shrugging one shoulder. The Golem had already said this was the most important room in the Keep, so I had no qualms about upgrading the place.

I pulled up my new Leader Tool Screen, then toggled over to the Darkshard Keep interface. It took me only a few seconds to locate the “Command Center” in the long list of available features; I mentally selected “restore,” spending 700 points in an eyeblink. The response to my decision was immediate and overwhelming: a flash of emerald power filled the air—emanating from the walls and bubbling up through the floors—as the room began to change. The rubble littering the ground dissolved and melted into pools of clear liquid, which evaporated into the night.

Then, right before my eyes, the ruined walls began to blur and swirl, old pitted stone giving way to dark, polished rock covered with thick tapestries, showing various battle scenes in intricate detail. A vaulted ceiling, boasting an elaborate chandelier, blinked into existence, while off to my right a massive fireplace took shape. Thick carpets grew from the cold stone floor like grass, and a second later a dark wood table—a hulking round thing, polished to a dull glow, with a huge emerald-green crystal in its center—appeared in the middle of the room, surrounded by comfortable-looking chairs with thick leather cushions. The whole process took only a handful of minutes, and by the time things had finally settled, the room was entirely transformed.

Cutter let out a bark of a laugh, then clapped his hands in approval. “Good show,” he said, a giant grin stretching out his face. “I can definitely get used to this.”

I nodded, knowing a similar grin decorated my own face. It was pretty cool, after all. “Alright,” I said, sauntering over to one of the chairs, plopping down, and letting the padded leather absorb my weight. I let out a sigh—despite its elegant and even imposing appearance, the chair was hands down the most comfortable thing I’d ever sat in. “We’ve got a lot to do and not much time to do it, so let’s sit down and work things out …”

The others—save for Baymor and his pair of Ranger pals, who stood watch at the door—took seats as we began digging into the nitty-gritty details. First, I manually added Abby, Otto, and Cutter to the faction, and after a quick discussion, Amara joined the team. Secretly, I’d been hoping Chief Kolle would sign up, but apparently as the official leader of Yunnam, he was obligated to remain apart from the faction, though he could work closely with us and offer us his invaluable advice.

With that done, I quickly elevated Abby to the rank of commander—equivalent to the faction vice-president. The promotion granted her the rank of baroness, gave her full access to the Leader Tool Screen, and authorized her to make binding decisions on behalf of the Crimson Alliance: everything from upgrading the Keep and admitting new travelers or NPCs, to spending faction money or expelling unruly faction members. Abby and I jointly elevated our other three officers to the rank of lieutenant commander, giving them full access to the Keep, authority over all lesser faction members, and limited power to act on the guild’s behalf.

Next, we set into a long conversation about the Keep’s upgrades—Otto and Amara seemed to heavily favor the notion of investing all of our points into defensive features or billeting for fighters. They wanted the walls fixed, the guard towers up and operational, the moat stocked with deadly beasts, the main gates fortified, and the barracks reconstructed ASAP, just to name a few. Cutter, by contrast, wanted to focus on the creature comforts: lavish housing quarters, restoring the luxurious subterranean hot spring and bathhouse, and upgrading the kitchen.

At first, I was inclined to agree wholeheartedly with Amara and Otto—after all, defenses seemed to be the most practical step—but Cutter actually made some pretty decent points. Mainly, we didn’t have enough points to make this place battle ready, not for at least a couple of weeks, so if Carrera decided to attack, we’d be hard-pressed to stop him. And, on top of that, we needed to live here in the meantime, and we couldn’t very well sleep in rubble and cobwebs. After a spirited conversation—with occasional threats of bodily harm—Abby and I finally settled somewhere in the middle.

We’d started out with 17,000 points in reserve, but the Command Center had dropped us down to 16,300. At this point, the outer wall was far too big to restore to operational capacity, but we restored the inner wall surrounding the Keep itself, which was still a whopping two and a half miles—6,600 points down the drain—then restored the four inner guard towers, at 700 a pop. Then, we spent another 1,800 on ten Giant Moat Leeches to guard the Keep’s outer perimeter. Total, our defenses left us at 5,100 points, which felt like next to nothing.

There were just so many other things we needed: an armory, a training grounds, additional guards, a Faction Vault. The list felt endless and overwhelming. But there was nothing we could do about that.

With our few remaining points, we opted for a few features that would make the place livable.

Abby and I splurged and picked a joint Master Suite, sporting its own connecting bath, which set us back 950 points. A lot of points, but in the grand scheme of things, I was sure it’d be worth every metaphorical penny. Then, at the urging of the chief, who vehemently insisted we’d soon have more people than we’d know what to do with, we opted for a basic barracks, capable of housing 150 people. Nothing fancy—certainly not the quartet of personal officer quarters Cutter had been lobbying for—but the barracks cost us half of the officer rooms and was far more practical.

We didn’t yet have the staff to justify a kitchen—but with the buffs V.G.O. offered for eating, I felt we shouldn’t overlook that feature, so it got thrown into the pot on principle. We also picked up a Water Well and Reservoir for 350 points—a small price to pay, considering it provided the Keep with safe drinking and bathing water. With our scant 3,400 remaining points, we picked an item that was the perfect mix of convenience and practicality: an external teleport pad in the Keep’s courtyard, which would let faction members and faction guests port directly to and from Yunnam.

The External Port Pad cost us a staggering 2,500 points, but it would save us loads of time in the long run—I mean, I wouldn’t have to spend a half-hour trekking up and down that ridiculous mountain. Totally worth it. Once we got the Keep more fully restored, we’d have to get the Internal Port Pad, which would allow select faction members to instantly port to any location in the Keep at the drop of a hat. So far, so good, but we’d only uncovered the tip of this massive bureaucratic iceberg, and there was still a lot of work to be done. I wiggled in my seat, adjusting and readjusting my position as I settled in for what was shaping up to be a long, long night.

FIFTEEN:

Faction Skills

“Obviously, it has to be the Battle-Craft Tree,” Otto said for what felt like the thousandth time. “That’s the only option that makes sense, given our current position and mission objectives.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed at my temples, desperately trying to massage away the headache building in my skull. It was the lack of sleep finally starting to kick in—it also didn’t help that we’d been talking about the stupid Faction Skill Points for well over an hour already. Endlessly circling the drain and getting nowhere fast.

At first, things had gone so well.

Heck, we’d practically breezed through the Faction Guidelines and Contract settings. We decided to set the Loot Tax—which applied to both loot collected while questing as well as all merchant transactions—at a flat rate of ten percent. An easy choice. We opted for a tiered EXP tax, however. All members between levels 1 and 24 paid twelve percent; members between 25 and 49 paid ten; members between 50 and 99, eight; and, finally, members over 100 paid only six. The tier system seemed counterintuitive, but the way we figured it, a lower tax on higher level characters would provide an extra incentive to join the Crimson Alliance.

Yep, everything was going smoothly until we got to the Faction Skills. Who would’ve thought the bureaucratic nitty-gritty would be the easy part?

“Grim Jack,” Otto said again, thumping a fist against the table to get my attention. “I don’t understand why you’re giving this any thought. The Battle-Craft option is clearly the best, so what are your reservations?”

I paused, fidgeted in my seat, then shrugged uncomfortably.

Sure, Battle-Craft seemed to offer the most obvious, tangible benefits to everyone in the group: Battle Prowess added additional attack damage, and Disciple’s Mind increased combat-related EXP earned by all faction members. Fleet-Footed added some significant movement bonuses, while Iron Skin granted increased elemental and physical resistances. There was also a skill called Dread Commander, which boosted troop morale and increased unit movement rate. Basically, if there was a skill or ability related to battle or fighting—including elemental and offensive magic—it could be beefed up through the Battle-Craft tree.

What’s more, everyone wanted the Battle-Craft option. Even Cutter agreed, which had to be one of the signs of the Apocalypse. But it just didn’t sit right with my gut, even if I couldn’t quite explain why.

“With those kinds of enhancements,” Otto steamrolled onward, his eyes distant and hazy as though envisioning the possibilities, “we could truly be a force to be reckoned with.” The others were nodding along.

“No,” I finally said, cutting him off as gently as possible.

“What do you mean, no?” Otto asked, voice flat but somehow chilly at the same time. “As a small force, we’ll need all the tactical advantages we can get, and the advantages offered in the Battle-Craft skill tree are too formidable to pass up. End of story.”

I blew my cheeks out and stood, letting out a groan as I stretched sore muscles. I began to pace the room—back and forth, back and forth, my boots making a soft thud, thud, thud as I moved. “I know the Battle-Craft tree looks awesome,” I replied, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes settle on me. “Heck, it is awesome, no question. But I just don’t think it’s for us …” I faltered, trailed off.

“It’s okay, Jack,” Abby urged, before shooting Otto a hard look—just cool it. “You’ve done remarkably well,” she said after a second, “so just speak what’s on your mind. Thinking outside the box is never a bad thing.”

I cleared my throat and nervously rubbed my hands on the sides of my trousers. “It just doesn’t make sense,” I said after a beat. “I mean, it does and it doesn’t. For us personally, the Battle-Craft tree would be awesome, because those upgrades would make us better. But I’m not sure they make sense for us corporately. As a faction. In the long run, we’re not the only ones that are going to be in the faction, right?”

“Sure,” Cutter said evenly, rationally, “but honestly, what would we do with a bunch of crafting upgrades, eh? Or intelligence briefs and dignitary skills? None of those other skill sets work for us.”

For the first time in maybe ever, Cutter was actually talking sense, but I still felt sure that it was the wrong way to go.

“Us?” I swept a hand around the room, taking in our tiny crew. “You’re right, those skills aren’t favorable for us. I’m not a crafter, and neither are you, but what’s to stop us from attracting crafters?”

Amara squinted and cocked her head to the side. “But even if we could attract such people, why would we want to? To what end? We’re trying to prevent the empire from grinding us into dirt. How in the world are crafters, merchants, architects, or orators going to help us accomplish such a thing?”

“Silence,” the chief said, the word a sharp whip-crack of command. “Grim Jack did something no one else among our people could do—he slayed the Moss Hag. And he did so using his head. He is young, but he has wisdom. Let him speak his piece.” He gave me a sly, reassuring wink.

“Well, it’s like what you just said, Abby. About thinking outside the box. Us? We’re always going to be the underdogs, while Osmark and his guys are always going to be the dominant force. They’re always going to have the upper hand—more power, more money, more alliance members—and the Battle-Craft school seems to cater to a faction with significant numbers. Like it’s meant for an army that can wage a big, frontal-assault-style war. Or maybe for a faction that specializes in large group raids. That kind of thing.”

“Geared toward a war of attrition,” Otto said, nodding slowly.

“Exactly,” I replied. “If we ever have to face Osmark on the open field of battle—army against army—we’re totally screwed. We can’t beat them that way.” I moved back over to my seat and plopped down with a sigh, feeling incredibly tired. “If we specialize in Battle-Craft, we’re going to be throwing points into a faction build we can’t win as. Abby”—I locked eyes with her—“if you were playing a game of D&D and you rolled a character with no strength and minimal constitution, would you ever pick a warrior class? No, you’d pick a class that complements their abilities. We need to do the same thing. We’re small, so we need to be sneaky and smart. We need to outthink these guys, not necessarily outfight them.”

“Okay, okay,” Cutter said, raising his hands in protest. “Let’s suppose for a moment that I sorta see your arse-backwards point—I still don’t understand how getting these other skill sets is going to help us survive what’s coming our way. This is a war against the entire bloody might of the empire. The High Commander of the Imperial Inquisitors is personally coming for us.”

“Well, here’s something to consider,” I said. “A lot of the travelers migrating to this world are going to be older people, unfamiliar with a place like Eldgard. Those travelers, they’re not going to want to run around the countryside killing monsters and raiding dungeons—especially not since the gods and goddesses running this show help nudge people toward their class based on what kind of personality they have. That means a lot of those folks are going to end up as architects and alchemists and blacksmiths, and if we invest in skills that benefit them, we’ll attract travelers who’ll have fresh ideas and interesting skill sets.”

“Yeah,” Abby said with a devilish grin. “The battle skills are all good, but they’re obvious. Who knows what kind of crazy-awesome abilities a master architect might have? Or a brilliant alchemist. You’re basically saying, since we can’t win traditionally, let’s gamble on the unknown.”

“Yeah,” I said with a wince. When put that way, it sounded a bit reckless, but what choice did we really have?

“Gawh.” Cutter threw his hands up in the air. “Fine. Whatever. You’re hopeless. Utterly hopeless. The whole bloody lot of you. But I don’t have anywhere else to go, so I guess I’m in.”

“What about the rest of you?” I asked, glancing at Amara, Chief Kolle, and Otto in turn.

“This choice seems strange to me,” Otto admitted with a shrug. “But perhaps there is wisdom in it. If Mistress Abby”—he dipped his head at mention of her name—“approves, then I will reserve my judgment for the time being.”

“I feel as the warrior does,” Amara added, face a sour grimace. “This feels backwards, but you are the Faction Chief, and in the end, this is your decision to make, so I will follow where you lead in this.”

I smiled and rubbed my palms together. “Good,” I said, “now let’s bring up the skill trees on the main display.” A wavering green wall of light formed in the air above the emerald crystal globe at the table’s center. First, we pored over the Merchant-Craft Tree:

We spent a solid hour examining and discussing the potential merits of each item in turn, making sure everyone had an opportunity to weigh in, before finally pulling up the State-Craft Skill tree on the main display:

Once more, we explored the options available to us, trying to decide what we should invest our very limited and hugely valuable points into. Finally, after yet another exhausting hour of back and forth arguing, we settled on our first six skills. There were so many cool goodies in the Merchant Tree—Barter, Investor, Entrepreneur, Caravan, and Fence basically amounted to a license to print money—but since we were specifically interested in attracting Crafters and potential innovators, we selected three skills from the Artisan path:

Faction Ability: Artisan

Though adventurers may have the more glamorous calling, Artisans make up the backbone of Eldgard’s society. More likely to be found in a bakery or smithy than crawling through a dungeon, Artisans are the creators, builders, and workers of Eldgard.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Durability to all crafted items increased by 15%.

Effect 2: Increases all magical and stat effects on crafted items by 20%.

Effect 3: The effectiveness of all potions, food, and other consumable items increased by 20%.

Faction Ability: Industrious

In the production industry, efficiency is one of the fundamental keys to success. With the Industrious ability, Crafters can drastically increase their overall productivity, and master new skills more quickly!

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Gatherers procure 18% more material per hour.

Effect 2: Production time for all crafted items—including potions, armaments, and even buildings—is reduced by 15%.

Effect 3: EXP for all Gathering and Crafting Professions increased by 10%.

Faction Ability: Frugal

Any savvy entrepreneur knows lowering production costs increases revenue—after all, the lower the overhead, the greater the profit margin! With the Frugal ability, all faction members can drastically reduce the cost of crafting objects, including infrastructure.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Production costs (coin, ore, lumber, and all other gathered ingredients) are decreased for all Professions by 18%.

Effect 2: Buildings cost 15% less to construct, including structures at the Faction Keep.

Although none of those abilities necessarily fit into my own skill set, I fervently hoped they’d lure in some of Eldgard’s finest talent. And if I was wrong … well, that wasn’t worth thinking about. We had a game plan, and as risky as it seemed, we just needed to stick with it and see it through to the end, for better or worse. With the last three points, we added a trio of abilities from the State-Craft Skill Tree to our ever-expanding list:

Faction Ability: Dignitary

Eldgard can be a hard, unforgiving land where everyone is looking out for their own best interests. Dignitaries, however, carry themselves with a natural ease and confidence, which endears them to everyone they meet.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: None

Effect 1: Increase reputation with all neutral and friendly factions by one level.

Effect 2: 10% improved favorability when buying from or selling to friendly merchants.

Effect 3: 12% improved chance to receive unique and rare quests from friendly factions and citizens. Additionally, merchants will be more likely to stock and display “secret” class-specific items.

Effect 4: Cast Anonymous once per day per (10) character levels. Anonymous allows faction members to pass unnoticed for (1) hour in a hostile faction territory.

Restriction: Anonymous will only work for players with an Unfriendly and Hostile reputation.

Faction Ability: Recruitment

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend …” Recruit travelers, citizens, and even whole factions to your cause. Recruitment allows faction leaders and other faction officers to form intricate alliances with the other powers of Eldgard. With the Recruitment ability, your faction can officially create treaties with NPC factions, even those that may otherwise be hostile to you.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Create treaties and form alliances with NPC-controlled factions.

Faction Ability: Black Market

The Black Market is an auction house and a powerful tool for the outcasts and rogues of civilized society. It is a place for those looking to trade in illicit information, traffic in stolen goods, or hire black-hearted mercenaries … All for the right price, of course.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: All faction members receive a new Black Market tab in their user interface.

Effect 2: All faction members gain (15) merchant slots within the Black Market.

It was creeping up on 3 AM by the time we finished, and everyone was bleary-eyed with exhaustion. I pulled the faction interface up one last time and froze. We had over eighteen thousand PMs waiting to be opened in our faction inbox. Probably, a good chunk of those were spam, threats, or people looking for freebies and handouts; eighteen thousand was still eighteen thousand, however. Thankfully, V.G.O.’s smart assistant would help filter out most of the junk, but even if only ten percent of those PMs were legit, that was 1,800 messages to wade through.

As if we didn’t already have enough on our plate. I simply shook my head and closed the interface.

There was still so much to do, but all that would just have to be a problem for another day. I was too worn out to do anything else tonight—not that I needed any more confirmation, but I was already sporting an Exhausted debuff, which slowed skill improvement, sapped carrying capacity, and decreased both Attack Damage and Spell Strength. My head also felt as foggy as a San Francisco morning in August.

“Alright,” I declared, “I’m calling it for tonight. We still need to decide what we’re going to do about Carrera and company, but everyone needs sleep first. How about we reconvene tomorrow morning at ten? We’ll meet here?”

Everyone agreed with muted, exhausted grunts, and before I knew it, I was shuffling my way toward my new private room, in desperate need of rest.

SIXTEEN:

The End Has Come

An alarm blared in my ear. Brrp, Brrp, Brrp, Brrp. Breaking News!

I shot up, shaking my head as I glanced around wild eyed and disoriented, searching for the source of the noise. Everything was pitch dark, and even with my Night-Eye ability, I could hardly see a thing. I knocked aside a light blanket draped across me, then swung my legs out over the edge of my new bed … well, technically it was a couch. A really nice couch, but still a couch. Our new master suite sported a bed—a humongous California King, big enough to accommodate five or six people—but I wasn’t sure Abby was comfortable splitting the mattress with me. Not yet, anyway.

Besides, I was used to sleeping on a couch anyway—I had lots of long nights of gaming to thank for that.

The alarm sounded again. Brrp, Brrp, Brrp, Brrp. Breaking News! Breaking News! Breaking News!

The noise was inside my head. “Alarm off, lights on,” I commanded groggily. The noise died as wall-mounted torches burst to life, coating the room in rich, warm yellow light. The master suite was everything my old apartment hadn’t been: spacious, luxurious, and expensive. The floors were polished granite, covered in places with thick area rugs of deep gray. There was lots of gleaming chrome, fancy modern art, and dark wood; honestly, it looked like a professional interior designer—with more money than common sense—had been let loose with reckless abandon.

I felt like a stranger here. Like an intruder. This was the posh pad of a billionaire—not the dinky, run-down hovel of a lowly EMT. It was definitely going to take a while to get used to living in a swanky place like this.

The mahogany double doors leading into the bedroom swung open, and Abby scrambled out, clad in only a flimsy nightgown, her hair frazzled, a look of worry flashing across her face. “Something’s happening, Jack. Something big.” She plopped down next to me in a huff, then turned her attention toward a glittering crystalline slab hanging from the wall in front of me. The object, labeled as a [Far-Seeing Crystal], looked like a big-screen television, which was oddly anachronistic compared to everything else I’d run across in V.G.O. so far. “On,” she said with a faint wave of one hand.

A muted flash filled the air as the Far-Seeing Crystal blinked to life, confirming my sneaking suspicion. I was guessing that a giant, magic TV wasn’t a feature most of Eldgard’s residents had access to, but then, the Faction Seals, and the Keeps that came with them, weren’t exactly meant for regular people either.

“Bring up the BBC,” Abby called out.

The TV fizzled for a moment, before a pair of news anchors materialized on the crystalline screen. There was a middle-aged man with wavy blond hair and unnaturally white teeth wearing a smart blazer. Sitting next to him was a thin Asian woman with straight black hair and an immaculate silver blouse. Though the anchors had well-coiffed hair and neatly pressed clothes, there was also an air of exhaustion mingling with desperation about them. These were two people hanging on by a thread—a fraying thread, only a moment away from snapping.

“It is with a heavy heart that I must announce we have reached the end, ladies and gentlemen,” the man said solemnly. His slightly clipped British accent reminded me of Cutter. He paused and ran trembling fingers over a stack of papers sitting on the news desk in front of him, adjusting and readjusting them, before clearing his throat.

“Despite the admirable efforts of our brightest minds,” he continued, “we have failed to split or divert the incoming asteroid. And so, we find ourselves on the verge of a catastrophe unseen since the extinction of the dinosaurs—a disaster the likes of which mankind has never known. With less than ten minutes to go, there is nothing left but to hold tightly to those we love and brace for impact. In preparation for the coming cataclysm, Lydia will now run through a rough simulation of what we can expect over the next minutes, hours, and days. Lydia?”

The camera panned to the Asian woman, Lydia, who now stood in front of a state-of-the-art holotable. “Thank you, John,” she said, her voice surprisingly pert for the end of the world. “Based on new information collected from the radio telescope in Arecibo, Puerto Rico, we believe Astraea will land somewhere in Central America or the Gulf of Mexico.” The holotable flared to life, and suddenly a perfectly rendered globe hung suspended in the air. With a few deft flicks of her hands, the globe shimmered and changed, until an enlarged view of Central America hovered in the air.

“Though the asteroid will likely land in water,” she said smoothly, professionally, “our experts have said this will make no difference.” Another flick of the wrist. Now the view of Central America was replaced by a giant hunk of rock and ice slicing through the dark expanse of space like a colossal bullet, aimed straight at the suspended Earth. “Astraea is traveling at approximately two hundred thousand kilometers an hour—or one hundred and twenty-five thousand miles per hour for our American viewers—and because of its immense size, Earth’s atmosphere will have a negligible effect on its incredible velocity.

“The asteroid will breach our atmosphere and will explode with the equivalent force of one hundred million megatons of TNT.” The holographically rendered asteroid collided into the projected Earth, and suddenly a mushroom cloud of water and fire and dirt exploded into low orbit. “Anyone within two thousand five hundred kilometers, or one thousand five hundred miles, of the impact site will likely be killed within seconds, which is devastating news for those living in coastal and southern areas of the United States. Shortly after impact, an EMP—or electric magnetic pulse—will erupt, destroying all technology not properly protected and causing world-wide blackouts. At that time, our station will likely go off air.”

She paused, took a deep breath, then tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. For the first time, there was a crack in her professional veneer. Although I couldn’t properly tell, it almost looked like unshed tears lingered just beneath her eyes.

“Now, if you live on the other side of the globe,” she finally soldiered on, her voice schooled to neutrality, “you will likely survive the impact. With that said, it’s very important you remain inside for as long as possible. Within twelve hours, the colossal amount of debris from the initial impact will start falling back through the atmosphere. Huge chunks of burning rock will rain down in a barrage of fiery hail that will destroy many major urban centers.” She spun one hand, and suddenly, in a horrific and spectacular display, the sky-bound debris on the holotable began falling, returning to Earth in a rain of burning rock and ash, peppering the surface like a barrage of artillery fire.

Abby scooted next to me until our thighs were touching and laced her fingers through mine. Her palm was clammy, slick, and trembling.

The news anchor, Lydia, seemed to crack a little more. She reached up and obliterated a lone tear, which had broken loose and run down her cheek. “Moreover,” she said, a slight quiver to the word, “the finer particulates will create a burning, suffocating cloud, which will choke out much of the life on the surface.” Once more, the hologram changed: the whole surface of the Earth was carpeted in rolling fire until it blazed like the sun.

“This burning cloud cover will hang overhead for a long time—perhaps as long as a week—and, as a result, the surface temperature will swell to well over one hundred and ten degrees Celsius. At such extreme temperatures, many forests and homes will spontaneously ignite, and even exposed water will begin to boil. It is imperative that you stay in shelter for at least a week, or longer if you are able.” Suddenly, her eyes bulged, tears leaking out wholesale, and the camera swiveled away from her, back to the male anchor.

“Well, we’ve just received a confirmation from NASA,” he said. “One minute and counting until impact.” A countdown timer appeared in the corner of the screen, making a mad sprint for zero. I could hear the anchorwoman crying softly in the background. “Good luck and Godspeed.” The anchor crossed himself before reverently bowing his head. “It’s truly been a pleasure and an honor to bring you the news.”

At seven seconds, the crystal screen went black, followed by a burst of static.

And that was it.

The end of the world.

My apartment was gone. My earthly remains and belongs incinerated. My neighbors and coworkers likely dead. My parents lived in Maine, so they probably had a little time left. Maybe.

Abby turned into me, flinging her arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug as she broke down into a racking sob. Crying seemed like the appropriate response, but I just felt numb—the whole moment was surreal and unbelievable. It seemed like a bad dream I’d surely wake up from, except I wasn’t waking up. I wouldn’t ever wake up. I wrapped my arms around Abby and pulled her into me, rubbing one hand along her back, but saying nothing. Because there was nothing to say. What words could I possibly offer in the face of the end of everything? No trite platitude would suffice in this moment.

We sat that way, listening to the static stream in from the screen for at least half an hour or more. It was the abrupt ping of a universal notification that finally drew us out of our silent grief:

Viridian Gate Online Universal Alert!

Notice: Traveler Robert Osmark has founded a faction in Viridian Gate Online! Any traveler of the Viridian Empire may now request to join Robert Osmark’s faction, the Ever-Victorious Empire, bound to the Imperial city of New Viridia, the seat of power of the Viridian Empire in Eldgard.

Notice: Traveler Robert Osmark has been crowned Emperor of the Viridian Empire!

Notice: Joining the Ever-Victorious Empire instantly lowers a player’s relationship with all Rebel-aligned factions to Unfriendly. Joining the Ever-Victorious Empire instantly raises a player’s relationship with all Imperial-aligned factions to Friendly. Joining the Ever-Victorious Empire entitles members to all Ever-Victorious Empire Faction buffs.

Notice: Emperor Robert Osmark is now an exalted enemy of the Eldgard Rebellion!

I stared at the notice in uncomprehending bewilderment. What? Seriously, what kind of absolute bullshit is this? A Universal Message popped up a second later, only increasing my confusion:

Universal Message from the Viridian Emperor

Today is a tragic day, one that will be scorched into our collective memory for as long as we live. All of us have suffered great loss: friends, family members, coworkers, our way of life. No one is unaffected by this awful and unavoidable catastrophe—everyone watching this has my deepest condolences. Now, as you have already seen, I’ve crowned myself Emperor, and though many of you may think such an act is callous or coldhearted, I’m here to tell you that I’m doing it with a heavy heart and with the best of intentions.

In the face of such terrible grief, rage and anger are common responses. In the face of this type of tragedy, people often react violently, as we all experienced firsthand from the riots and looting which have plagued our cities and streets over the past several weeks. In order to avoid a similar situation here, we need to have a strong, stable hand at the helm of the ship, guiding us into the calm, clear waters of prosperity and peace. I intend to be that hand.

Now is not the time for fighting or squabbling. Now is a time for rationality and unity to prevail despite overwhelming grief. So, for the sake of us all, my word is now law, and any acts of rioting or lawlessness—including defection to the Eldgard Rebellion and overt disobedience—will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. Please know I don’t relish this, but it is a necessary stopgap measure until we can come up with a better system.

With Sincerest Condolences,

Robert Osmark, High Emperor of the Viridian Empire

I read the message, and in seconds my bewilderment morphed into something new. Rage. This guy hadn’t waited a single day after the death of the Earth to declare himself the new Emperor of V.G.O. Sure, some part of me wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt—establishing an authority in the aftermath of this catastrophe was probably good, I told myself. Except it felt like an awful lie in my own ears, and then the rage was back, stronger than ever. I’ve never been a violent man, but at that moment, all I wanted was to cave Robert Osmark’s head in with my warhammer and smash his teeth out one by one.

My anger was quickly compounded as another Universal Alert popped up—this one declaring that Traveler Aleixo Carrera, the High Commander of the Imperial Inquisitors, had founded an Imperial-aligned faction in Rowanheath called the Knights of Holy Light.

And it didn’t stop there. More alerts followed, one right after another—all universal notifications declaring that various travelers had founded factions. The Black Legion in Harrowick. The Ancient Ones in Alaunhylles. The Arch-Masons in Stone Reach. Liberty Crossing in Glome Corrie. On and on they went, notification after notification lighting up my vision. Counting Osmark and Carrera, there were twenty-five in total, all of them with Imperial allegiances. Twenty-five.

A new message hit my personal inbox:

Personal Message:

As you can see, the forces arrayed against you are vast. You are a nobody. A loser with zero ambitions and no redeeming qualities. At best, you are a child playing in a world you do not understand. We have generals, spies, assassins, and politicians at our disposal. It’s only a matter of time before we obliterate you completely—you now have a day and a half to turn yourself in.

—High Commander Carrera

SEVENTEEN:

Strategy

Part of me still felt numb from the weight of everything that’d happened in the last hour, another big part of me felt supremely depressed. Abby had warned me about how dangerous it would be to get involved in this shady affair, but I hadn’t really believed her. Not in my heart. But now I had a genuine inkling of just how big this conspiracy actually was, and suddenly I felt like a gnat fighting against the pull of a whipping sandstorm. Everything felt hopeless: Earth dead. My family gone. V.G.O.—the place which was supposed to offer a port of safety—on the verge of tyranny.

But I roughly shoved away the depression and the shock threatening to bludgeon me into submission. As much as I wanted to go crawl into the monstrous California King, hide beneath the thick blankets, and sleep for the next year, I knew those feelings weren’t helpful. So instead, I latched on to the ember of anger burning in my soul. Who do these people think they are? What gives them the right to do this? To declare themselves our rulers? To pretend this is for the best against our say? I stoked the fire, fanning it higher and higher until I couldn’t sense the depression or sorrow through the red-hot rage surging through me.

I turned to Abby. Her skin was sickly pale and fat tear tracks ran down each cheek. “We’re so screwed, Jack,” she whimpered, drawing into me.

“No,” I said, pulling away from her, holding her at arm’s length. “No, we’re not. And this”—I reached up and wiped away her tears with a thumb—“this isn’t you. You’re not a weepy damsel in distress, Abby. You’re tough. We’re tough. Plus we’re smart, we’ve got a good crew, and we even have the blessing of an Overmind. These jerks aren’t indestructible, Abby. They think they are, but that’ll be their downfall.

“Sure,” I said, “we can’t take them in a straight-up fight, but we already knew that. We just need to keep cool and think our way around this. Nothing’s changed. Not really.” I pulled up my interface and noted the time—8:37 AM. “We’ve still got a little over an hour before we’re supposed to meet with everyone else. I say we head up early and work out a plan. Something to keep our minds off ...” I trailed off, refusing to say it: To keep our minds off the Armageddon. Off of all the people who just died.

“Yeah, okay,” she said with a sniffle, running her clammy hands over her nightgown. “Yeah,” she said again, this time a bit more confidently, “we just need to think smart. We need to think like gamers—that’s our big advantage. Let’s do it.”

We scrambled to our feet, threw on our clothes and armor, and left for the command tower, brainstorming the whole while. By the time the others started trickling in around ten to ten, Abby and I had come up with a solid game plan. One that would catch everyone off guard.

Hopefully.

“Okay, everyone,” I said as the last person—Cutter, obviously—made his way into the council room and took his seat. “As you all probably know by now, our enemies have founded a whole bunch of factions, and for the time being we’re going to be their number one target, so we won’t have much time to act.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Cutter said, sounding much more morose than his typical self, “but I don’t see how we’re going to walk away from this.” He eyed everyone in turn. “I’m a bit of a gambling man, and these are the worst odds I’ve ever seen. Even if we can somehow rally all of the Rebellion behind us, I’d still say we’re screwed. As much as I’m loath to give this place up, maybe we should all consider jumping ship. Might be the only way we survive this mess.”

“No, Cutter,” I said with a shake of my head. “We can’t run from this. These people, they won’t stop until they find us and end us. Besides, even if we could run, I still wouldn’t. Maybe we aren’t the best people to lead a rebellion, but we’re the only people who have a shot at it. If we run, what kind of world are we going to leave behind? Back where I come from, freedom—the right to say what you want, to think how you want, to pursue the things that make you happy—is something worth fighting for. My dad, he was a Marine. I don’t agree with a lot of the things he said or did, but he fought to defend those truths, and on that I agree with him. We need to win, because there’s no other option.”

“Well said,” Otto grunted in approval, “but fanciful words won’t break the empire’s back. Hope may keep us going, but it isn’t enough to earn our freedom. So, what exactly are you proposing?”

“We’re going to start a preemptive war,” Abby replied, stone-faced. “We’re going to capture Rowanheath. Steal it right from beneath Carrera’s fat nose. We can’t afford to just hole up here and ride out a siege—the empire will grind us to dust with their numbers. But if we can keep them on their toes, they’ll be too busy looking to their own borders to mess with ours.”

A heavy, uneasy silence fell over the chamber.

“Even if we can do such a thing, which I am skeptical of,” Amara said, breaking the quiet, “what purpose would it serve? Even if we take one city, they still have a far greater force than we do.”

“That’s true,” I replied, holding up a hand to fend off the barrage of questions, “but it would buy us a lot of time to come up with a better game plan. First, Rowanheath is the closest Imperial city to us, so if they’re going to stage a massive invasion, that’s where they’re going to do it. If we can take it, then they’ll have to travel significantly further to get at us. Second, if we do manage to take the city, we’ll displace Carrera, which is a huge bonus, plus it’ll show the empire we have teeth—that they can’t just steamroll over us like a bunch of lowbies. And lastly, a victory like that is exactly what we need to rally support from the Rebellion.”

“Okay, let me see if I have this right,” Cutter said, leaning forward and stretching his hands out across the table. “We’re going to do a bit of sleight of hand, and distract the empire by capturing Rowanheath—the Wode Stronghold of the South?”

“Yep,” I replied. “Basically.”

“What?!” He slapped his hands against the table, the sharp thump echoing around the room. “Am I the only one who’s actually listening to this nonsense? This is crazy. How are we”—he swept a hand around the room—“going to take Rowanheath? Rowanheath withstood a full-scale siege for four months before falling, and I should know since I was there. How are we going to do in one day, with a handful of men, what the bloody empire barely managed to do, eh? It’s impossible.” He frowned, slumped back in his chair, and folded his arms as though to say that’s the end of discussion.

“Nope,” I said, pulling the Shadow Cannon schematics from my bag. “Not impossible. Just tricky. And we’re going to be very busy because I want to attack tomorrow at sunset. That’s when Carrera expects me to turn myself in, and I want to show up at his doorstep with an army and some nasty weapons.”

The chief looked at the plan and frowned. “I’m not sure what you’re thinking of doing, but these cannons”—he reached forward and drew the schematics toward him—“will never allow us to breach Rowanheath’s walls. They simply aren’t powerful enough.”

I smiled and shook my head. “That’s okay. We’re not really going to try to take the city by siege. All we need to do is capture the Command Center of the Rowanheath Keep. If we can do that, we can make the city’s defenses work for us. But those”—I jabbed a finger at the plans—“are going to help us do it. They’re going to serve as our major distraction. When Carrera dispatches the main body of his troops to defend the front wall, we’re going to sneak in and stab him in the back.” I paused, looking at the plans. “We’re going to need to find some engineers, though. Someone who can modify these schematics so we can make these weapons mobile.”

“But there’s an inner wall defending the Keep as well,” Cutter objected, “and even if you divert most of his forces to the main wall, you’ll never get through the inner wall’s gate. Not without siege weapons, and scaling the damned thing is impossible.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said, pointing a cocked finger at him.

“Alright, you cheeky bastard,” he replied with a grin, eyes squinted in suspicion. “You’ve piqued my curiosity—I’m all ears.”

“Good,” I said as I pulled up my interface and started scrolling through my notes. “Now here’s what we need to get done. Abby is going to start wading through all the PMs the faction received yesterday—try to release some sort of universal reply to separate the wheat from the chaff. Her focus is going to be on recruiting.” I glanced around the room. “She’s going to get us every engineer and miner she can find. We need to get the mines open, these cannons built, and the defenses as operational as possible.” I cleared my throat and turned my gaze to the chief. “Chief, is it possible for you to contact the Dark Conclave on our behalf?”

He frowned, then nodded slowly. “It is not typical, but since you are a member in good standing—even if low-ranked—I will do so. What would you have me tell them?”

“I’m not expecting them to fight for us, but can you have them put out the word that we’re looking for any Maa-Tál that might be willing to join our faction, especially other Shadowmancers? Oh, and please speak to the villagers—if they join up, it’ll give them a bunch of great buffs, which will allow us to get those fortifications done much faster.”

“Consider it done,” he said tersely, a troubled look flashing across his face.

“Now, Otto, I need you and Amara to work with the town guard. Hopefully, it won’t come to a siege, but it’d be stupid not to prepare for it. So I want you guys going over every inch of the fortifications, start working out a watch rotation, and then see to equipping the townsfolk. Just forward any expense requests to Abby. She’ll see you have the money you need for gear and supplies—within reason, obviously.”

“Cutter,” I said, rounding on the thief, “we’re also going to need to hire some mercenaries—Summoners and Stealth types would be best, but I’ll take whatever I can get. I’m thinking you could use our new Black Market skill to get in touch with that merc Warlock we met in the restricted area, and go from there?”

“I can get us a squad of mostly reliable mercs, assuming you’ll front the gold to pay for ’em. But you still haven’t told me how you plan to get past the inner wall.”

“You’re going to help with that too,” I replied. “We need the Rowanheath smugglers. We’re going to move a small squad, let’s say twenty people, through unnoticed. Don’t suppose you could help us out there, could you?”

“Might be I know a guy.” He pulled a dagger free, then absently cleaned his fingernails with the gleaming tip. “But those sewers will only take us into the city,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at me, “not into the Keep.”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” I replied with a nod, before letting out a deep sigh. “That’s why I’m going to go recruit our way over the inner wall—I’m gonna try and strike a deal with the Spider Queen.”

EIGHTEEN:

Worthy Foe

I smashed in the head of yet another [Feral Bog Wolf], watching the mangy creature crumple to the ground, dead and bloody. I eyed the small clearing, counting my victims—five total—before wiping the blood spatter from my cheek with a grimy hand. I planted my hammer into the loamy earth and leaned against it, fighting to catch my breath as I pulled up my user interface. The Spider Queen—known locally as Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver—and her nightmare brood of spiderkin weren’t much further now, which was good because I was already exhausted and it was only an hour past noon.

It’d taken me a couple of hours to carve my way through the forest to the edge of her territory, and the forest mobs hadn’t made the trek easy. This was the first time I’d ventured out since gaining my four new levels from founding the Crimson Alliance, and I idly wondered if the game was now spawning tougher mobs for me to kill—the Overminds were certainly smart enough to do so. I closed out of my interface and looted the lupine corpses, earning myself some pelts and a handful of silver, before heading off into the deeper bush. I pushed and shoved my way through a tangle of thick vegetation and caught the sound of a babbling brook a moment later.

I grinned, feeling a sudden sense of relief mixed with white-knuckled trepidation. That stream ran from north to south for miles and miles and acted as a natural boundary between the Ak-Hani-controlled territory and the hunting grounds of the giant arachnoids of Hellweb Hollow. Once I crossed that little body of water, I’d be committed to this plan, and if things went poorly, I’d be sent for respawn in a eyeblink. At least I hoped it would be an eyeblink—the Spider Queen was well known for cocooning people alive and draining them slowly over the course of several weeks.

With a deep breath, I leapt over the meandering, unobtrusive stream and made my way deeper into the swampy marsh, avoiding fetid puddles of water and the constant tangle of vines. On this side of the stream, the jungle was strangely quiet—no chirping birds or chittering squirrels, not even the constant drone of buzzing insects. Nope, just the dull thud of my footfalls on damp earth, occasionally interrupted by a leaf crunching or twig snapping. As I got closer to the Hollow, however, I began to hear a soft but persistent rustle, an unnerving sound like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.

Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch, over and over again.

The awful, low-pitched noise sent chills racing along my spine, despite the humid swamp heat. From personal experience, I knew the unnerving sound was actually unseen spiderkin rubbing their hairy legs together like a horde of massive, nightmare crickets. Crickets that would slurp out my insides if they caught me. I pushed away the awful thoughts racing through my head; at this point I couldn’t really afford to doubt or second-guess myself. I took a few deep, calming breaths, then checked my user interface and readjusted my course so I was heading straight for the Queen’s lair.

I closed the menu and headed on, confident this was the right move. The only move.

The dry rustling became louder and more insistent as I drew closer and closer to the Hollow. Before long, gauzy silver webbing began cropping up behind me, ensuring I couldn’t turn and flee the way I’d come. I also began to catch glimpses of movement at the edge of my vision—a multi-jointed leg here, a bulbous belly there, or occasionally the glint of a curved fang. Whenever I spun to catch the creature, though, the forest was always empty and quiet, save for the ever-present rustle of legs. The spiderkin were herding me like a steer headed for the slaughterhouse.

An odd sense of déjà vu settled over me as I walked.

They’d done this same thing to Cutter and me the first time we’d blundered through here, so it shouldn’t have been quite so disturbing. But it was disturbing. Part of me wished I had Cutter along, but I knew this was something I needed to do alone. There was a good chance this whole endeavor would go sideways, and I wasn’t willing to risk an NPC on such a foolhardy gamble. It was a gamble someone needed to take, though. If we were going to capture Rowanheath, we’d need to breach the inner wall surrounding the Keep, and to do that, we’d need the Queen and her disgusting children. End of story.

I just hope my new Recruitment ability worked the way I thought it did—

I paused mid-step as a spiderkin scuttled boldly into view, blocking my path. More of the creatures scuttled through the trees to either side, while several appeared from the canopy overhead, dangling above me on fat cords of spider silk. They had me boxed in nice and tight. I wasn’t sure I could kill so many of them, but with my Shadow Stride ability, I was reasonably sure I could escape if it came down to it. But I wasn’t here to fight, I reminded myself, not if I could help it. Besides, the spiderkin weren’t attacking, so maybe there was some hope yet.

After a few tense heartbeats, the spiders lifted their front legs into the air and began to wave them back and forth, huge limbs swaying like long grass in a stiff breeze.

I turned in a slow circle, trying to figure out what they were up to. I didn’t have a clue. After another second, they lifted arachnoid faces to the sky—their spidery jaws stretched wide—and began to speak.

“The troublesome fly returns,” the spiderkin said as one, their voices crooning at me from every side. “Do not be disturbed by this method of communication,” the spiders said, voices buzzing like an electric saw. “My children are all linked to my mind, and at times I choose to speak through them.”

“So this is the Queen I’m talking to?” I said, trying to sound calm and confident instead of nervous, bordering on terrified.

“Just so,” the spiders droned in reply. “Last time you visited us, you brought us an honored enemy—one that very nearly killed me. So this time, I thought it prudent to stop you before you blundered into my lair.”

“I’ve come to talk,” I said, slipping my warhammer into the frog at my belt and raising empty hands toward the sky. “I mean you no harm at all. Exactly the opposite, actually. I’ve recently formed a faction—the Crimson Alliance—and I’d like to discuss the potential terms of a peace treaty.”

“So you’re Grim Jack,” the spiderkin said, sounding almost thoughtful. “I saw the Universal Alert, as did all citizens and creatures of Eldgard, but I hadn’t yet put a face to the name. What an enigma you are, troublesome fly. But what pray tell makes you think I’d like to bargain with you and your kind in the first place? The Shadow Children across the stream are my enemies—enemies who have hunted my children for as far as memory stretches. Yet you would have me strike a truce with them? What makes you think I wouldn’t rather just eat you now?”

The spiderkin around me began to scuttle in, tightening the circle around me like a noose. Those raised, waving front legs were almost close enough to reach out and touch, and there was no direction I could move in without running right into another set of hairy legs or dull black eyes. I paused, licking my dry lips, working a little moisture into them.

“You let me go after the battle with the Moss Hag,” I said, a slight waver in my words. “You could’ve eaten me then, but you didn’t. That means you can be reasoned with. You’re not just some monster, and I think if you hear me out, you’ll see this deal will benefit you and yours as much or more than it will benefit me and mine. Sure, you could eat me here and now, but if you make a treaty with me, I can promise you enough human meat to feed your brood for a decade.”

The spiderkin stopped their slow-moving onslaught. “Human meat,” the spiders hissed, their fangs dripping with viscous strands of green drool. “We do so love the taste of man-flesh.” A long thoughtful pause followed. “I am intrigued enough to hear you out, troublesome fly.” A flood of sweet relief washed through my body like a wave at high tide. Oh my God, it worked.

“But first,” the spiderkin said, “a little test. We are predators, and we don’t make deals with prey.” The word sounded like a curse. “Prove yourself worthy and I’ll hear out the terms of your compact, though that is no guarantee of peace between us.” An alert popped up:

Quest Alert: Worthy Foe

Prove your worth as a predator and worthy foe by successfully battling your way to the Royal Throne Room of Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver. If you can overcome her legion of minions, you’ll earn the right to an audience.

Quest Class: Rare, Faction-Based

Quest Difficulty: Infernal

Success: Battle your way to the Royal Throne Room of the Spider Queen.

Failure: Die before reaching the Royal Throne Room.

Reward: Audience with the Spider Queen.

Accept: Yes/No?

I read over the quest, feeling just a tad queasy at the “Infernal” difficulty level, but accepted it all the same. What else could I possibly do?

The second I selected yes, a terrible screech reverberated through the forest as the spiderkin burst into manic motion, rushing at me from all sides. I dismissed the quest screen in a blink, then fished my warhammer from my belt just as one of the spiderkin lunged for me, its venom-coated fangs flashing out. I threw myself into a hasty dive and rolled back to my feet in a single fluid motion—remembering Cutter’s training, which felt like a lifetime ago—before pivoting and smashing my hammer into the creature’s exposed side.

The first blow punched a nasty hole in its abdomen, and a quick follow-up put the creature down for keeps. I offered the dying creature a fierce smile before spinning to engage another brown-legged monster. I blasted this one in the face with an Umbra Bolt, which sheared through the creature’s skull like a laser blast, knocking off three-quarters of its hit points, leaving it reeling drunkenly on its many legs. I thrust the spiked tip of my hammer right into the creature’s fanged maw and killed it in a flash. The last time I’d tangled with spiderkin, I’d been seven levels lower and I hadn’t even managed to unlock my class.

This was a downright cakewalk.

I spun, twirling my hammer in an overhead arch before one-shotting another spider as I triggered Savage Blow, which earned me a critical hit. These things really were a breeze—at least individually—but more and more were pouring in every second, and I was beginning to worry they’d simply overwhelm me before long. Even easy mobs in big enough numbers are a threat. I dropped to a knee and rolled left, avoiding a spider descending from the trees above, then triggered Shadow Stride with a burst of inky power. The horde of advancing spiderkin came to a herky-jerky halt all around me, frozen in place like horrific monster-movie props.

I blew out a quick breath, then quickly legged it through the jungle, sprinting as fast as my Stamina would allow while I kept one eye on the Shadow Stride countdown timer spinning away in the corner of my vision. I ducked under low hanging vines, hurdled moldering tree trunks, and leapt over pools of water, fighting to put as much distance between me and the horde as possible. My countdown timer flashed right before time came crashing back down on me, accompanied by the enraged screeches of an army of spiders off in the distance. I had a forty-five second cooldown on Shadow Stride, so I crossed my fingers and dropped into Stealth.

The deep shadows of the jungle reached out and embraced me, swallowing me whole as I vanished from sight. Safe for now.

I carefully wound my way through the warren of trees and jungle growth to the edge of a giant clearing, marked on my interface map as the Hellweb Hollow. My destination. The meadow was ringed by towering old-growth trees, and in its center sat an enormous concave pit, covered in gauzy webbing: the entrance to the Queen’s lair. I’d half expected to see the monstrous matriarch waiting patiently for me, but she was absent, biding her time below, no doubt. There were a lot of spiders, though. Fifty or more, loitering about, guarding the entrance against uninvited guests.

My Shadow Stride ability had finally recharged, but I decided to try and Stealth my way past them instead—I could always trigger Shadow Stride if things went south. I took a few deep breaths, then stole forward, moving in a low crouch toward the yawning hole, as big around as a subway tunnel. I held my breath the whole way, terrified that even the slightest noise would bring every spider crashing down on my head in an avalanche of legs, hair, and fangs.

Five feet out, I stopped dead in my tracks as a huge spider—this one muted gray in color, which was new—rappelled down from the trees and settled near the entrance of the pit. The creature, close enough to reach out and poke, turned its ugly face directly toward me and seemed to stare at me. Great beads of nervous sweat rolled down my face as I waited for the spider’s war cry to go up. But it never did. After a few seconds, the creature simply turned away and scampered toward the clearing’s perimeter. I let out a silent, shuddering breath, then crept forward and slipped over the edge of the pit, lowering myself into darkness.

NINETEEN:

Spider’s Lair

I dropped into a sloping tunnel, the walls were coated with gossamer webbing generously littered with leaves, twigs, and other bits of debris, including the bones of a few small animals. I expected to find the Royal Throne Room right away, but I was wrong. Instead, a circular passageway cut into the earth before snaking out of view. Still cloaked in Stealth, I crept onward, tentatively feeling my way along, on high alert for any potential traps or attackers. Once I rounded the bend, the sunlight died completely, swallowed by the dark, but odd glowing fungi lined the ceiling like a living carpet, shedding feeble light along the path.

After a few seconds, my Night Eye ability kicked on, giving everything a pale blue tint. Deeper I went. It didn’t take long before the first mobs appeared: a quartet of muddy-brown spiders scuttling toward me. They seemed oblivious to my presence, but between the four of them, they took up the entire passageway and would blunder right into me. Even with my Stealth abilities, there was simply no way to avoid them. No way around them. Looked like I’d have to do a bit more fighting, which actually didn’t bother me too much—after all, these things weren’t all that hard to kill, and I could use all the extra EXP I could get my hands on.

I pulled my warhammer free, planted my feet, then patiently waited for them to creep closer. I launched a Stealth attack as the first spiderkin entered my range—I put my full body weight into the swing, pretending the spiderkin’s misshapen head was a baseball. The blunt face of my weapon landed with a thud, earning me some significant backstab damage and a critical hit, which absolutely obliterated the creature’s skull in the process. The other three let out a chorus of angry screeches, but I was already moving before they could coordinate any sort of proper defense. I twirled through them like a tornado of flesh, steel, and shady magic: thrusting here, smashing there, unleashing an Umbra Bolt at a spiderkin trying to flee.

The whole encounter took a handful of seconds, and I barely felt winded. That was nice for a change, since most of the mobs I’d encountered so far hadn’t exactly been easy prey. I collected some shoddy loot—a Rusty Dagger (shoddy), a Copper Buckler, and a handful of silver coins—along with a bit of EXP before moving on.

It didn’t take long before I discovered this place wasn’t just a few dinky hallways with a handful of extra rooms; no, this place was a full-on dungeon—an impressive one with a seemingly endless number of twisting tunnelways. I also found plenty of mobs to battle. At first, it was just a bunch of the brown-haired spiderkin, which I quickly dispatched and looted, but those quickly gave way to chitinous, gray spiderkin called [Sword-Slayers], which moved like greased lightning and hit harder than Mack Trucks. Much, much tougher. And they were aptly named since their arachnoid legs were razor-blade sharp along the edges and ended in a stabbing point.

Eventually, the Sword-Slayers were replaced by sleek black spiders [Poison Darters], which were a bit smaller, but armed with some formidable toxic attacks—including the ability to launch a barrage of venom-slick fangs through the air like arrows. Much tougher and much smarter, but they also doled out significantly more EXP and loot. A few even dropped a gold mark, which wasn’t shabby at all. On and on it seemed to go: Poison Darters disappeared after a time, replaced by [Portal-Crawlers]—electric blue spiders that could teleport in an eyeblink—followed by [Colossal Spiderkin]. The name really said everything that needed to be said about them.

On the plus side, I managed to score a new ring—Ring of Leech Tongue, which granted me 25 points of life absorption per kill—and a sweet new cloak to replace the Rough-Worn Cloak of Stealth I was currently sporting:

Cloak of Web-Walking

Weapon Type: Cloak

Class: Magical, Attire

Base Armor Rating: 12

Effect: 15% increased chance to avoid Movement Restricting Debuffs.

I put both of those on without a second thought before moving on.

Eventually, the main passageway opened up into a labyrinth of interconnected tunnels and strange rooms filled with all sorts of bizarre stuff. One cavernous space contained a forest of oversized mushrooms, some as large as trees, in a hundred different varieties and a riot of hues: fire-hydrant red, sickly neon green, eye-burning electric blue. The whole room glowed with their spectral light. The gamer in me wanted to explore the area—there were undoubtedly some ultra-rare ingredients in there—but then I caught sight of a pair of bulging yellow eyes just before something enormous and studded with thick tentacles slipped out of sight.

Yeah. On second thought, I really needed to stick to the quest at hand, cool loot or no.

There were lots of rooms besides Fungus City. A few looked suspiciously like communal living spaces: the rocky walls were littered with honeycombed nooks and crannies, which seemed to serve as sleeping quarters for the monster bugs. There were also treasure rooms, filled with chests of gold and silver, and scattered with weapons and armor of all sorts. Those, I wanted to raid, and consequences be damned, but unfortunately they were also jam-packed with thick webbing and the forms of hulking spiders just waiting to attack like junkyard dogs.

I’d need a proper team to clear some of those areas. Another time, I scolded myself before moving on.

The most disconcerting room, though, was what could only be a combination meat locker and kitchen. Bodies—some human, most not—covered every surface. Many hung from the ceiling in silken sacs. Others were strapped to stalagmites and stalactites jutting from the ceiling and floor. Even more were stacked against the craggy walls like firewood, just waiting to be used up. Consumed. Looking at all of those bodies—and some were still clearly alive, judging by the way the sacs wriggled or swung—made me sick down to my core.

Is this really the right move?

Despite what I’d convinced myself of, these creatures were clearly monsters. Maybe intelligent monsters, but still monsters. Could I really justify striking a bargain with these things? And even if I did, how could I be sure that deal wouldn’t come back to bite me in the ass big-time later on? I didn’t have any good answers, but my mind instantly recalled the first line from the Recruitment skill description: “The enemy of my enemy is my friend …” Maybe the Spider Queen and her children would be a problem later on, but for now they might just keep me and my friends alive.

So, I pushed the awful thoughts from mind and left the horrific pantry behind, skirting around another bend, which terminated at the biggest cavern I’d seen yet. The place was easily the size of a football stadium. Impressive to say the least. Scattered across the floor and lined up against the walls were bulging egg sacs, filled with the shadowy forms of spiderkin. Eight-legged, nightmare babies waiting to be born. Directly in the center of the cavernous room sat a dilapidated pyramid of rough stone. Huge steps led up to a flat dais with an elaborately carved throne at its middle, and hanging above that—suspended by a thousand threads of silk from the ceiling—was a gigantic ball of webbing with a hole in the bottom.

The web-orb was at least thirty feet in diameter, but instead of silvery gauze, the whole thing was built from golden silk which glowed like an indoor sun. This place had to be the Royal Throne Room; it practically screamed “Spider Queen” at the top of its lungs. I took one tentative step forward, and a small platoon of purple spiders—their bodies studded with wicked barbs—materialized in the air before me. The things were at least twice the size of the brown-haired spiderkin from above and pulsed with a ghostly light, which reminded me of my own Umbra Bolt abilities.

I took one glance at their name and immediately felt sick to my stomach: [Umbra Crawlers]. Of course.

The Umbra Crawlers shot forward en masse, moving with astonishing speed for creatures their size. A flair of panic raced through me as I triggered my Shadow Stride skill on instinct. I didn’t need to kill these things to complete the quest—I just needed to get to the top of that dais—so I intended to run. Inky black smoke exploded out from me, swallowing me in a swirl of shadow, but something sticky and viscous splattered against my feet at the same instant. Panicked, I glanced down and saw great gobs of webbing pinning me in place, earning me a pair of combat notifications:

Debuff Added

Snared: You have been snared by Web Vomit, slowing your movement by 50%; duration, 3 minutes.

Shadow Stride failed! You’ve been snared and are unable to Shadow Stride until your movement is restored.

The panic increased in intensity, turning into a bright, angry knot of fear in my stomach.

I launched an Umbra Bolt at an encroaching spider, but the attack glanced off its side with little effect, ricocheting harmlessly into the Throne Room beyond. With adrenaline coursing through me, I lashed out with my hammer, but something slammed into me from the side, tackling me to the ground. I landed badly, a flash of pain lancing through my body, and before I knew what was happening, one of the purple monsters was straddling me, its bloated abdomen throbbing and pulsing as it spewed more webbing over me, cocooning my legs together in quick, fluid motions, then moving up to my waist and hands.

I fought feebly, trying to wrestle my warhammer up so I could fight back.

The effort was futile, though—the thick webbing was like superglue, pinning my right hand uselessly against my body. My left hand was still free, though, so I slashed at the creature above me with my bladed gauntlet. The attack opened a nasty gash in its pulsating belly, spilling out gelatinous green gore that reeked like soiled meat and raw sewage. The creature chittered in protest but kept working tirelessly away, wrapping me up tighter and tighter. Mummifying me. In a last-ditch effort, I conjured Umbra Bog around me, hoping to slow down the other Umbra Crawlers, but that earned me another fail notification:

Umbra Bog Failed! Umbra Crawlers resist Umbra Bog with the Web-Walker ability!

Great. I went back to fruitlessly slashing at the creature with my lone gauntlet, but after another few seconds, even that option was taken from me as fine strands of gossamer bound my arm. The creature kept working, until only my head was left free. I continued to struggle, shaking myself back and forth, straining to break loose, but the cocoon was as snug as a straightjacket. There was no way I was getting out.

TWENTY:

Wheeling and Dealing

“Relax, troublesome fly.” The words echoed around the cavernous room. “You fought valiantly, but I can’t allow you to get too close without some proper restraint. You’re very clever, after all, and perhaps you mean me ill will. If your deal is as good as you say, you have nothing to fear. If you have some trickery planned, though, you’d best prepare yourself for a very long and painful death.” A quest alert appeared as she fell silent:

Quest Alert: Worthy Foe

Despite being captured, you’ve managed to reach the Royal Throne Room of Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver alive, thus proving yourself to be a worthy foe and dangerous predator. In return for your valiant endeavor, you’ve earned a begrudging audience with the Spider Matriarch! Because you possess the “Blessing of the Forest,” your relationship with the Spider Nation has improved to from Hostile to Neutral. You’ve been awarded 100 renown—in-world fame—for completing this rare, faction-based quest. Greater renown elevates you within the ranks of Eldgard and can affect merchant prices when selling or buying.

I dismissed the notice as my spider captor lifted me from the ground, slung me across its broad, bulbous back, and scuttled to the top of the pyramid, where it unceremoniously dropped me to the stone floor like a sack of flour. I lay on my back wriggling against my bonds, but finally stopped as the Spider Queen dropped down from the hole in the web-orb above, creeping down on a thread of pure gold. I could only stare on with silent revulsion.

Though I’d come face-to-face with the Spider Queen twice now, I was still taken aback by how horrendously hideous she was. Her thorax was fat, bloated, and deeply black, with looping swirls of neon red, which pulsed with uneasy light. She seemed to have legs upon legs upon legs—more than any normal spider could possibly possess—which were covered with bristling red hairs the color of a fresh nosebleed. Her arachnoid head was the size of a vintage slug bug and studded with about a thousand gleaming eyes and a set of barbed fangs more closely resembling swords than teeth.

Whatever Dev had invented this particular creature was seriously sick in the head.

The Spider Queen descended with a regal slowness, touching down softly on her too many legs as she regarded me with cold calculation. “I welcome you to my humble abode,” she buzzed, her voice the sound of an entire colony of wasps, though there was a subtle femininity to it.

Bloody light enveloped the Queen’s body, and her form began to shimmer and quiver, to dance and twirl before my eyes as her massive body shrank and morphed into something new. Her terrible, multi-jointed legs shriveled, her fat abdomen disappeared in a wash of conjured light, and her arachnoid head began to distort and shrink. One last flare of brilliant, scarlet light temporarily blinded me, but when my vision returned, the Spider Queen was gone, replaced by something almost, but not quite human. This new Lowyth was surprisingly feminine, with long legs, a slim waist, and a cute heart-shaped face.

But to call her fully human would be wrong.

Her skin was still black chitin covered in slashes of fire-engine-red light. Her hair was bristly maroon and unnatural. Formidable talons tipped her fingers, and her face was covered with dull black eyes. Strangest of all, spider legs jutted from her back like wings, constantly curling and uncurling like grotesque fingers. “Since you are technically here as a guest, I thought I’d put on something a little more comfortable,” she offered with a quirked eyebrow, her voice now equal parts smoky and sultry. She turned smartly and sauntered toward the throne, taking a seat, then carefully, slowly, crossed her shapely legs.

“If you really want to make me more comfortable,” I replied, “you could cut me loose from this cocoon.”

She laughed, her bloodred lips pulling back to reveal teeth filed to sharp points. “No, Traveler, I think not. The first rule in negotiations is maintain control, and right now I’m in utter control. I’m also negotiating from a position of power, since you are quite at my mercy.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” I said with a shrug, the motion supremely awkward since I was so tightly bound. “But not really. I mean, yes, you can kill me—I’m in the heart of your kingdom and there’s no way I could get out of here if you decide you want me dead. With that said, I’m a traveler, so I won’t stay dead, and the offer I have for you is a onetime opportunity. You kill me and your one chance to expand your territory and feast on human flesh goes bye-bye.

“And maybe you should also remember,” I added after a brief pause, “I’m the head of a faction now—I could always make it a priority to wipe this dungeon right off the face of the map in the not-too-distant future. It wouldn’t be easy, but with the tools I have at my disposal, it would be possible. Just imagine, a flood of magic and cold steel raining down on your kind. I’m willing to negotiate because I’d rather make a genuine ally than a reluctant one, but you don’t hold all the cards here. You might have the upper hand in the short term, but I have the upper hand in the long term.”

She canted her head, pursed her lips, and regarded me solemnly. “Maybe there’s more to you than meets the eye,” she purred softly, “but I still won’t let you out. Not until we strike a compact. As I said, what if this is some ruse? You’ve already escaped me twice”—she raised two talon-tipped fingers into the air—“and you dispatched the Moss Hag through trickery and deception. Not that I mind, of course. Trickery and deception are coveted qualities in my realm. Still, I suppose I could at least offer you a seat if we are to negotiate properly.” She snapped her fingers and suddenly a spider was dropping from the ceiling with a rickety wooden chair, which looked Ak-Hani built, in its lanky limbs.

In short order, I found myself perched in a chair, secured in place with a spurt of webbing. “That’s a little better,” I offered, resigned.

“Perfect,” she said, tapping at the corner of her full lips with one razor-sharp nail. “Now, my children grow restless, so let us get down to business. What exactly are the terms you’re proposing?”

“It’s pretty straightforward,” I said. “We started a war with the Viridian Empire, and soon, Imperial troops are going to be flooding the Storme Marshes, intent on wiping us off the face of the Earth. I want you to expand your territory so your spiderkin roam the jungles and swamps around Yunnam as well. Then you do what you do best: when the Imperials come, you get to eat.”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “Unacceptable. We will not merely be your watch dogs, even if it earns us a hearty meal.”

“But you’ll expanded your territory, gain a constant supply of fresh meat, and you’ll have peace with the Ak-Hani hunters. That’s a win, win, win for you. The best possible deal.”

“This is true,” she replied with a hiss, “but we would be seen as subservient to your kind, and that will never do, fly. Your kind may call us monsters, but we are a proud nation and we will only form a compact as equals.”

Though she was saying no, I felt a wave of relief, because she wasn’t saying no, never, she was saying no, not yet. I could work with no, not yet. Heck, I hadn’t been expecting her to say yes in the first place. I had other chips to bargain with—and a few other favors to ask for in return—but the fact that she was negotiating was good.

I smiled. “Look, I’m new to this,” I said, “but it sounds like there’s common ground here. I’m prepared to hear you out, I just need to know what you’re looking to get out of this deal.”

“How shrewd of you,” she replied, staring at me through a host of squinted eyes. “Perhaps we can work something out yet. As the compact stands now, you gain much, but lose little. You grant us territory, but my children are the ones who will pay in blood. So, you must pay something too.” She paused, as though thinking. I got the sense, however, that it was all an act—she already knew exactly what she wanted. “Your lands are studded with mines full of Darkshard Ore,” she finally said, “a rare ingredient invaluable to the growth of dungeon space. Dungeons—like your Keep—draw power from the ley lines deep in the earth, but Darkshard Ore can be converted and used to make changes. Upgrades. So, I want a cut of everything you mine. Five percent of all ore extracted will come directly to me …”

And so the haggling commenced.

Back and forth we went, making offer and counteroffer, arguing over percentage points and territory rights. Discussing the exact terms of our future peace accord: Could the spiderkin attack Ak-Hani clansfolk that wandered into their territory? What about travelers crossing the swamps with friendly intentions? Caravans? How would defensive patrols work? Would the spiderkin be required to report Imperial incursions? Our conversation lasted a solid hour, and by the end I felt the arrangement was as good as I was going to get. I wasn’t completely satisfied, but then I also felt I’d given as good as I’d gotten.

She’d receive two-and-a-half percent of all the Darkshard Ore we mined, which I felt was a win, considering we’d started at five percent. Her brood couldn’t attack any Ak-Hani or Crimson Alliance members, though they could defend themselves if attacked unprovoked. Unfortunately, the spiderkin would be allowed to kill any neutral travelers or citizens—such as merchant caravans, or adventurers seeking to join the faction—with impunity, unless they had a specific agreement with the faction. That particular point bugged me a great deal since it would have a negative impact on trade, but she was unwilling to budge on the point.

On the plus side, I managed to sell her on the one item I really needed in the short term: troops. She committed to lend us a detachment of spiderkin, thirty strong, for our assault on Rowanheath, which might well make the difference between life and death.

“The only thing to do now”—Lowyth stood and stretched, her lithe muscles straining beneath her chitinous skin—“is to finalize our bargain.” She glided toward me like a predator on the prowl. She smiled as she drew close to me and extended one hand, tracing her nails along my cheek. The tips were wickedly sharp; just a tad more pressure and they’d slice right through my skin. She circled me, talons sliding over the nape of my neck, before her hand finally settled in my hair.

“Though this is nothing you could know,” she said, the words a satisfied whisper, “it is customary for all bargains to be sealed with a blood sacrifice. It is a custom of my kin. One final act of brutality to satiate all hunger and hate before any truce commences. Best to start on a genuinely clean slate.” She waved, and a fat spider scuttled up the stairs and crouched just to her right. I glanced at the bug. It was the same Umbra Crawler that’d captured me and brought me here—I could tell from the string of gore hanging down from its belly, compliments of my bladed gauntlets.

The Queen cocked her head to one side, then struck with lightning-fast fury. Her hand jabbed straight down, her fingers punching through the creature’s skull, killing it in an instant. She pulled her hand free and regarded her digits, now coated in slick gore. “I make you this offering,” she said, holding her blood-smeared hand toward me, “blood of my blood, pledged to you in good faith. And now, for your offering.”

I paused, dumbstruck. What exactly did she expect me to do? “My kind aren’t really the blood-sacrificing types,” I replied slowly. “Plus, even if that wasn’t totally awful, I don’t have anyone to sacrifice.”

She smiled and slinked closer, once more dragging her nail down my cheek, this time hard enough to draw blood and knock off a fraction of my hit points. The Queen held up her claw and examined the blood dripping down her talon. “Are you sure about that?” she asked, her voice a hungry buzz.

My stomach dropped as realization dawned on me: she’d set this whole thing up from the beginning. She’d always intended to kill me, she just intended to kill me and get the opportunity of a lifetime from it. Now, there was no way I could go back. She’d maneuvered me firmly into a corner using trickery and deception, and if I didn’t willingly let her murder me, our contract would be void and she’d kill me anyway. Oh boy, was this going to suck hard. I gulped and pressed my eyes shut tight so I wouldn’t have to watch. “Okay,” I said, voice quivering in fear. “I offer you my life, just please make it quick.”

“Oh course,” she whispered, her lips brushing against my ear. Something sharp jabbed straight through my armor and into my chest; fiery agony rolled along my nerve endings as I struggled to breathe—except no air would come. Her hand was inside of me, wriggling around, perforating my lungs and slashing at my internal organs. I wheezed and coughed, blood filling my mouth and dribbling from my lips. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering what kind of monsters the Devs were to allow events like this to happen to players. That thought quickly fled, though, as the Queen leaned into me, filling my nose with a sickly-sweet scent like rotting fruit.

“No one escapes me three times, troublesome fly,” she said. “Consider this a warning in case you should ever try to double-cross me. No one is more devious than me …” The words faded to a muted whisper as my HP plummeted to zero and the world went dark around me.

TWENTY-ONE:

Debuff, Death

Ocean waves lapped at my feet as muddy sand squished up through my toes. I turned my head and smiled, regarding the magnificent sunset as a cool breeze blew in, ruffling my hair. The water glowed in rippling shades of yellow, orange, and pink, and the sky overhead was just as impressive: a patchwork of drifting clouds in a multitude of hues. A gull squawked somewhere out of sight, complementing the soft wash of the water against the sand. It was a perfect moment. Someone squeezed my hand, and I looked down, surprised to find a petite hand interlaced with mine.

I followed the hand up.

Jessica was smiling at me, her perfect white teeth brilliant against her suntanned skin. She reached up and ran her other hand through her blonde locks, absently brushing a wind-tussled strand off her face. She was beautiful. The fading sunlight stained her white tank top with color, turning it into a dreamy tie-dye. I smiled at her, but underneath, confusion surged through me. Everything felt so real, so right, but I knew we’d broken things off over a year ago. Right after she finished her Bachelors in Education at San Diego State. She’d found a job in Colorado. She’d left me to be a middle school teacher.

She’d thrown away three years together for an entry-level 30K a year job in Boulder. A flash of anger burned in my gut, but I quickly doused it, not wanting to ruin the sublime moment.

No, instead I squeezed her hand tight because I missed her so much and I wanted this to be my world, my reality. It felt so good to be back on the beach again, to see the palm trees and taste the salty tang in the air.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, except now it was Abby’s voice.

I glanced over to find my friend walking next to me, and not the perfectly rendered VR Wode version, either. The Real Abby. Dark skin, just a little overweight, beautiful smile and great dimples. She was wearing a nondescript tank top and dark jeans, rolled up at the cuffs so the incoming surf wouldn’t get them wet. “Why didn’t we ever make this work?” she asked, looking out over the water instead of at me. “Us, I mean.”

I shrugged. “Timing was always off. You were with Jordan, then I was with Jessica. The stars just never really lined up, I guess. Besides, our friendship was too good—you weren’t interested in risking that. Your words.”

She looked at me and nodded, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Yeah, but we were good together, you know? I think I was just scared. We could’ve had something, could’ve been something good maybe.” Her words faded, and the conversation was replaced by the slap of waves and the cry of gulls. I glanced away, watching the waves race up the beach ahead, then sprint back toward the ocean. “The stars are aligned now,” she said, though she didn’t sound quite right. There was an unnatural buzz to her words, like the crooning of some giant bug.

I turned back toward her, but she was gone.

Now, I was holding hands with a nightmare woman with black skin, arachnoid eyes, and spidery legs protruding from her back. Her vibrant lips were stained red with blood. My blood. I jerked my hand free and ran as fast as my feet would carry me, but the wet sand sucked me down like a tar pit—or maybe spider webbing—and try as I might, I couldn’t get away. It was like running on a treadmill: no matter how hard I tried, or how many steps I took, I never really moved.

I stole a frantic look back over my shoulder. The nightmare woman strode forward with a swish and sway of her hips, completely untroubled by the mucky sand, gliding freely over its surface. “No one is more devious than me …” she called out, “and no one can escape my web …”

I jolted upright, sweat rolling down my face, my heart thumping manically.

Where am I? How did I get here?

I leaned back on my palms, feeling silk sheets and a soft mattress beneath my hands. I was in a bed—and not just any bed, the California King back in my personal suite at the Keep—but I couldn’t remember going to sleep. No, the last thing I clearly remembered was being cocooned alive, then having that psycho-monster tear though my armor like it was made of wet paper instead of heavily enchanted leather and blackened ring mail. The same psycho-monster from my dream.

The Spider Queen.

Remembering her brought back a flash of pain; hesitantly, I reached down and ran a trembling hand over my pecs, searching for the gaping hole I knew would be there. Except it wasn’t, and neither was my armor. My fingers ghosted over gunmetal gray skin, and there wasn’t a mark on me, not even a scratch. Everything looked whole and healthy, exactly the way it should, but I couldn’t shake the memory of her ripping through my skin. Of her smashing past my breastbone, then rupturing my lungs and heart. That had happened, I was sure of it.

I took a few deep calming breaths, pressing my eyes shut as I worked to get my head on straight. It was so hard, though, mostly because I felt absolutely awful. Worse than the worst hangover on the planet. A throbbing headache pounded away inside my skull, and though there were no physical signs of injury, it sure felt like someone had pushed me into an industrial meatgrinder, shoveled up my remains, then fed those into the meatgrinder again. Everything hurt. My skin felt tight and raw—as if I’d sustained a blistering sunburn—my muscles were basically Jell-O, and my bones ached with muted fury.

This had to be some kind of debuff, that was the only thing that made any sense.

With a grimace, I pulled up my interface and was immediately inundated with notifications:

Ability: Shadow-Spark

Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 3

Cost: None

Effect: Umbra unlocked. All Shadow-based skill stats are increased by 3% per Shadow-Spark level (Current: 9%).

Skill: Stealth

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 10

Cost: 20 Stamina

Effect: Stealth 20% chance to hide from enemies (+15.6% augmented Stealth).

Skill: Backstab

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 8

Cost: 20 Stamina

Effect: A brutal backstab attack can be activated while an adventurer is in Stealth. 7x normal damage with a knife; 5x normal damage with all other weapons.

Effect 2: 8% increased chance of critical hit while backstabbing.

Skill: Blunt Weapons

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 11

Cost: None

Effect: Increases blunt weapon damage by 25%; increases blunt weapon attack rate by 5%.

Skill: Medium Armor

Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 5

Cost: None

Effect 1: 16% increased base armor rating while wearing Medium Armor.

Effect 2: +0.5% additional increased base armor rating for every piece of Medium Armor worn.

I quickly read over the list of skill increases, then closed them one by one and scrolled over to a section listing my current active effects:

Current Debuffs

Death’s Curse: You have died! You have lost 22,920 EXP! Skills improve 20% slower; duration, 8 hours. All EXP earned reduced by 15%; duration, 8 hours. Attack Damage and Spell Strength reduced by 20%; duration, 8 hours. Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 25%; duration, 8 hours. Carry Capacity -50 lbs; duration, 8 hours.

Death’s Sting: Suffer extreme physical discomfort and waves of weakness; duration, 4 hours.

I read the various debuffs over much more slowly, my head pulsing as I tried to focus, and swore silently under my breath.

Wasn’t actually suffering a horrific death bad enough? This was just cruel. Sadistic, even. I wasn’t a big believer in God or the afterlife, but I sure hoped there was some cosmic force responsible for doling out Karma, because these Devs had some serious payback coming their way. Although, a part of me begrudgingly admitted the debuffs made a certain sense—if death wasn’t permanent, what exactly was the incentive to not die? Why not take big risks unless there were real and awful consequences associated with failure?

Losing all current EXP—which would be devastating at high levels—and living through these debuffs were a pretty damn good deterrent, in my opinion. Still, knowing there was a good reason for my suffering didn’t make it any easier or less painful.

Disgruntled, I opened my inventory and let out a sigh of relief as I found my gear, unequipped but waiting for me in my bag. That meant V.G.O. didn’t require corpse runs, which was great considering where I’d kicked the bucket. I hastily equipped my various items—Night Blessed Armor, Cloak of Web-Walking, Belt of Agility, Fortified Braided Leather Leggings, Helm of the Owl, plus all my various rings and talismans. I immediately felt better. All the Stat and Regen boosts my equipment offered eased the pain rampaging through me.

A little, anyway.

I couldn’t believe the Spider Queen had killed me—I’d been so close to completing that stupid quest without getting captured. Really, though, I was angrier at myself than at her. She was a monster—a semi-intelligent one, but still a monster. I shouldn’t have expected anything else from her. She was a crafty killer who respected strength and cunning, but had no room for mercy or weakness. It was my fault for thinking she would behave like a human.

I also felt a flash of irritation at myself for not going in there better prepared. I was a level twenty-eight now, and I had 55 undistributed Attribute Points and 12 Proficiency Points doing absolutely nothing. Nothing. I couldn’t help but wonder if that whole encounter would’ve played out differently in the end, had I just distributed those damned Proficiency and Attribute points earlier on. I couldn’t ever know for certain, but it was definitely possible. So far, I’d been hesitant to commit my points, because once spent, I could never get them back, but I now realized how much of a handicap I was putting myself at by doing that.

A handicap which might’ve just killed me.

Well, I wouldn’t let that happen again. My dad was a hard man—a career in the Corps will do that to anyone—but he was always gracious when it came to mistakes and failures. So long as I learned from them, of course. To him there was no failure, only an opportunity to learn, to grow, and to do things better the next time around. In the end, things had worked out okay with the spiderkin, but there was no doubt in my mind that I’d screwed up. Thankfully, this mistake was something I could rectify. So, even though my head felt like a smashed watermelon, I gritted my teeth and pulled up my character menu.
No reason to put this off any longer.

First, I turned my attention to my Attribute Points. My Attack Strength was calculated like a Rogue class—based primarily off of Dexterity instead of Strength—so I immediately dumped 15 points into Dexterity, bringing my damage up significantly. Spirit and Intelligence were both obvious necessities, so I dropped 12 points into each of those, leaving me 20 points left to divide up between the other stats. A measly three went into Strength, bringing me up to an even forty, and 5 more went into vitality, since a little extra Health was never bad to have.

My battle style revolved around speed and agility, and I’d noticed my lagging Stamina had cost me more than once in the last few days, so the last 8 points went into Constitution. Satisfied, I surveyed my new character stats:

Everything looked good to me, except that big fat goose-egg of a zero staring at me from the Current EXP box. I couldn’t believe how much experience death had cost me. I’d been nearly half-way to my next level. There was no point beating myself up about it further, though; I just needed to be smarter in the future. Next, I pulled up my Shadowmancer Skill Tree screen and took a long look at the abilities available to me. Many of the previously blocked skills were now open, which made me feel marginally better even if it didn’t actually do anything for the pain crashing through me like a goblin raiding party.

First, I decided to beef up the skills I already had and loved.

Immediately, I invested two more points into Shadow Stride—since it was easily my coolest ability—bringing it up to level 3, Adept. Surprisingly, the spell cost increased from 100 Spirit to 150, but the range shot up to 100 meters, the length of time I could spend in the Shadowverse also jumped by 20 seconds, and the cooldown time dropped from 45 to 35 seconds. And best of all, I earned a new effect: increased Health-Regen rate by 15% while Shadow Striding, which was a killer bonus. Definitely a good investment.

Umbra Bog had also been super useful, so it got another point—bumping the “slow-movement” rate from 75% to 80%, while increasing the spell’s duration by 10 seconds. I couldn’t neglect Umbra Bolt, since it was my go-to range attack, so that got a point as well, bringing it up to the Journeyman level, which increased the attack damage to 200% Spell Strength and added a new effect: Umbra Bolt has a 10% chance to confuse enemies, causing them to randomly attack other hostile forces. I smiled. I could just imagine the kinds of crazy-chaos an ability like that could cause if utilized properly.

Void Terror earned itself another point, so that if, on the off chance, I ran across another formidable shadow minion, I could capture it without a problem. That dropped me down to seven points with a lot of skills left to explore. Dark Harmony, Night Armor, and Dark Shield, I left alone, since they were mainly passive and defensive abilities, and so far my play style had focused more heavily on Stealth, quick attacks, and crowd control tactics. Instead, I decided to pick up a few new abilities that looked promising:

Skill: Black Caress

With the power of the Black Caress, you can charge your weapon with a potent bolt of shadow energy, which will inflict harm on enemies while simultaneously allowing you to absorb a portion of their health. At higher proficiency levels, both damage and amount of life absorbed increase.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 120 Spirit

Range: Weapon

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: 45 seconds

Effect 1: Add shadow damage to one regular attack.

Effect 2: Shadow Damage for 190% of Spell Power, plus regular attack damage.

Effect 2: Absorb 15% Health of total attack damage dealt during the attack.

Skill: Plague Burst

Summon a billowing, toxic plague fog from the deepest recess of the Shadowverse. This spell unleashes powerful forces capable of killing most lesser-summoned beings on contact while causing significant poison damage to everyone and everything—friends, foes, and even the Caster—within the area of effect.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 375 Spirit Initial; 5 Spirit/per second for 1 minute.

Range: 40 Meters

Cast Time: 10 seconds

Cooldown: 5 minutes

Effect 1: 50% chance to instantly kill lesser-summoned creatures on contact.

Effect 2: Shadow Damage for 275% of Spell Power on contact. Initial Plague cloud lasts for 5 seconds.

Effect 3: Disease Damage for 5% of Spell Power/per second to all exposed combatants; duration, 1 minute.

Restriction: If the caster runs out of Spirit before the duration of the Disease Damage Debuff expires, the Debuff will terminate prematurely.

I was excited to try Black Caress, since it seemed more or less like the Shadowmancer version of Savage Blow: adding a bunch of Shadow Damage to a single strike.

By itself, Black Caress didn’t deal much more damage than my Umbra Bolt, but I was pretty sure I’d be able to stack it on top of the Savage Blow ability, which could further be combined with Backstab. If I was right—and there was no reason to think I wasn’t—then I had a potentially devastating attack, which could KO most regular mobs in a single shot. I was also excited about Plague Burst, which seemed perfectly tailored for use with the Umbra Bog skill: just pin the monsters in place with the first, then hit them hard with the second for big damage.

Really big damage. With my current spell strength at 87, that Plague Burst would deal over 250 points of initial Shadow Damage, plus an additional 275 points of disease damage over time. I’d have to be careful of friendly fire, though, since I could just as easily kill Cutter, Abby, Amara, or even myself by mistake. Next, I chose a passive ability that drastically boosted Spirit Regen—an essential, considering how much some of these new spells cost.

Ability: Shadow Minded

Draw on the ever-present power of the Umbra to restore your Spirit from the strains of battle and spell casting.

Ability Type/Level: Passive/Initiate

Cost: None

Range: N/A

Cast Time: N/A

Cooldown: N/A

Effect: Increase Spirit Regeneration by 15%.

That left me 4 points left to work with.

I looked over the other skills in my tree, and though all of them looked awesome, I figured it would be better to invest what I had left into some of my more mundane abilities—something that didn’t depend solely on Spirit to use. I toggled over to the General Skills menu, then brought up Blunt Weapons; since I was now at level 11, I could finally pick up the Crush Armor ability: a special power attack activated like Savage Blow. It cost 100 Stamina per shot—nearly a sixth of what I had—but the result was a blow with 250% attack bonus against opponents in heavy plate armor. Wicked cool.

Since Dark Templars were specifically designed to be natural enemies to the Holy Templars of the empire—who were renowned for their specialty heavy armor—that seemed like a skill too good to pass up. One more point down. Though I relied heavily on Stealth, I already had a bunch of points invested there, so instead I turned my sights on the Medium Armor Skill Tree. I was still relatively low level, but I had one option, called Sprint, which increased my movement rate by 2% for every piece of medium armor I wore—since speed was central to my character, that seemed like a real no-brainer.

The last two points … Well, those I saved. Maybe it would’ve made sense to spend it, but in my experience, it was always better to have an extra point in reserve, just in case.

With all of my points divvied up and parceled out, I scrolled over to my main interface to check the time: 10:19 PM. I swore under my breath. On top of everything else, dying had cost me eight hours. Great. Perfect. I had a little less than a day left before the planned raid on Rowanheath was supposed to go down. In a huff, I closed my interface, swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and pushed myself upright with a heave and a groan. Even with all of my new perks, the pain was still too much, and my legs buckled beneath me, landing me back on the mattress.

I ground my teeth in frustration. A part of me liked the idea of flopping down and closing my eyes for the next eight hours—just try to sleep through these awful debuffs—but I couldn’t afford to lose any more time. So I pulled a Health Regen vial from a pouch at my belt, downed the contents in one gulp, then quickly cast my Night Armor ability, wrapping myself in a swirling, second skin of shadowy energy. Obviously, I didn’t have to worry about enemies here in the Keep, but Night Armor also came with the uncanny ability to ease a small amount of physical pain.

TWENTY-TWO:

Reports, Reports, Reports

Between the potion and the spell, the hardest edge of the fatigue and pain faded to the background, giving me enough strength to stand, though only barely. I took a deep breath, then gingerly shuffled for the door, bent on finding Abby and figuring out what I’d missed in the ten hours I’d been gone. I hobbled down a passageway, moving like a recent car-wreck victim, and took turn after turn until I eventually found myself at the base of the stairs that spiraled up toward the Keep’s control room. If Abby was here, that’s where she’d be.

I didn’t relish the notion of climbing all those stairs, though.

I really should’ve splurged for the Keep’s internal teleportation system. A sudden flash of inspiration hit me a second later, and I pulled open my Keep interface, my lips stretching into a devious grin. There were all kinds of kickass abilities, and it only took me a few moments to find what I wanted: “Summon Keeper.” I activated the button; immediately, there was a burst of angry red light as one of the stone guardians pulled itself from the Keep’s floor. Thankfully, it wasn’t Brewald the Golem, just some nameless Keeper.

The creature mutely regarded me with its single giant eye, patiently waiting for instructions. I cleared my throat, shifting uncomfortably under the thing’s gaze. “I need a ride to the control room,” I said, waving a hand toward the stairs.

The creature didn’t speak, but it stared at me for a long hard second. Seriously? that look seemed to say. But after a beat, the Keeper complied, shuffling forward, then scooping me up in burly arms, before wheeling around and taking the stairs two at a time. The ride wasn’t comfortable, but in next to no time, we rounded a bend and emerged into the Keep’s control room, which was filled with a spattering of people, including Abby and the chief. All conversation ceased as the Keeper carried me into the room, cradling me in its oversized arms like a newborn.

For a second everything fell silent, then Abby broke the spell by busting out in laughter, which quickly started a chain reaction of hoots and knee slapping. Red crept into my cheeks, but I fought to brush off the embarrassment—they could laugh all they wanted, because I hadn’t had to hoof it up all those stairs in my sad state.

“Welcome, your majesty,” Abby giggled, dabbing at her eyes, “glad to see you’re alive and misusing our guards. Why didn’t I think of riding them around as mounts instead of just using my legs?”

“Funny,” I said, quirking an eyebrow at her. “But I wouldn’t be doing this if I could walk. I died, the Spider Queen killed me, and now I can hardly move.”

“Death’s Curse?” she offered with a wince.
“Yeah,” I replied as I motioned for the Keeper to set me down. Gingerly, I hobbled over to one of the highbacked chairs. “Why didn’t anyone tell me how bad it sucks to die?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s one of those things you just have to experience for yourself. I’ve died four times so far, and it never gets better—in fact, it actually gets worse the higher up you go. The debuffs last the same amount of time but the effects are all amped up, and the pain …” She trailed off, her lips turning down into a frown. “I’ve heard that after you hit level fifty, you’re pretty much incapacitated by Death’s Sting. Just hearsay, but I believe it.”

“Is that really you, Jacky-boy?” someone boomed from across the room, cutting through my conversation with Abby. I glanced up to find a whip-thin Dawn Elf, sporting expensive robes covered in golden scrollwork, striding purposefully toward me. His face didn’t look familiar, but his voice rang a bell inside my head. Jacky-boy, he’d called me. Only one person I knew ever called me that.

“Wait, Anton Black?” I said, taken aback.

IRL, Anton was a tax accountant from the UK. Bradford, I thought. He’d been with our old gaming guild for as long as it’d been around, but the character before me couldn’t have been Anton. Anton always played hard-hitting, melee characters—warriors, barbs, berserkers, and endless variations thereof were all in his wheelhouse. But the lanky elf before me, with his fine robes and his delicate features, wasn’t a fighter by any stretch of the imagination. He looked far closer to an alchemist or a merchant than a sword-wielding meathead.

“One and the same,” the man said with a grin and a cheesy bow.

“But, but look at you,” I stammered. “What class are you?”

He paused and blushed. “Merchant. I thought about picking a Risi,” he said, as though reading the question directly from my mind, “but this is real life now. Being a warrior is great in games, but that’s not how I want to spend my existence. Not to mention, my wife, Angie, put her foot down hard on the notion. ‘I refuse to be married to one of those green monsters,’” he mimed in a bad falsetto, before shrugging.

“She’s right though”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“they are ugly. Plus, at the end of the day, I’m a tax accountant, not a fighter. I’m way more comfortable crunching numbers and balancing ledgers than bashing skulls, so this seemed like a better fit. I contacted our girl there,” he continued, jerking his head toward Abby, “the second the Universal Alert about the Crimson Alliance went out. I knew it had to be you, though damned if I know how you pulled this whole thing off.” He paused and stared around the Command Center with a certain admiration. “For the time being, I’m going to be working as the faction quartermaster and logistics officer.”

“Well holy crap is that good news,” I replied. “We need all the help we can get around here. Besides, it sure is good to see some more familiar faces. Out of curiosity, is your wife here with you?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, crossing his arms. “She’s a deadly chef. The absolute best. Abby already got us set up in the new housing development on the edge of Yunnam, and she’s downstairs working in the kitchen. Our little girl’s here, too. Rachael. Only eleven, but she seems to be adjusting okay to all of this. Heck, I’d say she’s adjusting better than we are. Alright,” he said, clapping his hands together, “we’ll catch up a little more later—I’ve got to deal with this joker over here.” He hooked a thumb toward a boxy, dour-faced Dwarf with an epic beard across the room.

“He’s our new Mine Overseer, Mark Muller.” He paused, and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “He’s a good guy, very competent, but there’re already a load of issues. It’s those damned Void Terrors. They keep respawning and harassing our diggers. It’s a real headache. But you’ve got enough to sort out, Jacky-Boy. We’ll talk more later,” he said, before shuffling off toward the surly dwarf with a sigh. I knew from firsthand experience how much of a nuisance the Terrors could be, but I was glad to hear they’d respawned. That meant more potential minions for me, though admittedly it was going to be a pain in the ass for everyone else.

I turned back to Abby, a lopsided smile on my face. “It’s good to see him, isn’t it?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, it really is.” I paused, glancing around at all the people hustling and bustling through the room. “So, care to fill me in on what’s going on around here?”

“Absolutely,” she replied, “but first, I’ve got a little surprise for you. I took the liberty of ordering you some breakfast”—she waved toward the far door—“well, dinner actually, but you get the idea. The food should help with the pain a bit.”

I turned in my seat and found a mousy Murk Elf woman scurrying toward me with a tray laden down with food. Some of it was clearly Eldgard fare—honeyed porridge and seared pork—but another plate held something that looked suspiciously like flapjacks. My stomach rumbled in anticipation. The woman set the tray down with a brief curtsy. I fished a silver mark from my bag and pressed it into her hand as she was preparing to turn away. “Thank you, ma’am,” I muttered sheepishly.

She offered me a toothy, grateful smile in return, then hurried off, back the way she’d come.

I picked up the silverware in shaky hands and tore into the food, taking huge bites with great gusto. Amazing. The flapjacks, called [Old Fashioned Hotcakes], tasted spot on and even came with something eerily similar to maple syrup. “Wow,” I moaned around a mouthful of food.

“Good, right?” Abby asked, more statement than question, a ghost of a smile dancing on her lips as she watched me devour each bite.

“So good,” I mumbled.

“Now try that.” She gestured toward a porcelain cup filled with something dark, steaming, and potent smelling. Slowly, I lifted the cup, inhaled a deep whiff of the rich aroma, and took a sip: nutty, rich, delicious. I almost cried. It was coffee. And not crappy instant coffee. Good coffee. I felt a little teary-eyed. Back IRL, coffee had been a staple of my existence, and I’d sincerely thought I’d never enjoy another cup. Even better, it did help with the Death debuffs, even if only indirectly, since it offered some awesome benefits:

Buffs Added

Western Brew: Restore 150 HP over 30 seconds. Increase Health Regen by 18%; duration, 30 minutes.

Caffeinated: Base Intelligence increased by (5) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Vitality increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Strength increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes.

Remember, with enough good coffee, all things are possible.

I grinned. Despite being mentally unhinged, apparently the Devs still had some small sense of humor.

“This is so, so, so amazing,” I murmured contentedly. “It’s heaven. Delicious coffee heaven. Maybe I can make it here, after all.”

“Well, enjoy it sparingly,” she said. “Unfortunately, the beans needed to brew it only grow in a couple of dirt-speck farming towns on the other side of the Barren Sands, so it costs a fortune to acquire and ship. Anton brought it with him, so you need to thank him later.”

“Yeah,” I said, inhaling another deep whiff. “I know you’re already crazy busy, but let’s find someone with a farming specialization and see if we can’t manage to get this growing around here. Everyone is gonna want to get their hands on this. Everyone.”

She smiled, her nose crinkling. “You’re so cute, Jack,” she said, reaching up and patting me on the cheek. “I’m already on it—I’ve got headhunters searching for compatible farmers as we speak.”

“You’re really on the ball here”—I gestured with my syrup-covered fork—“you’ve got everything in hand. I feel like you don’t even need me.”

“I’m good with organizing,” she said with a noncommittal shrug. “Program management was a big part of what I did back at Osmark Tech. Good management is all about finding good people. Once you’ve got a solid team, you just need to delegate appropriately, then get the hell out of the way so they can do their work. The hardest part was sorting through the flood of emails we got last night, but once I found some good candidates, everything else sort of clicked into place. Anton’s running logistics. Delor Damian”—he was another former Crimson Alliance Clan member—“is in the fold now, too. He’s an Accipiter Scout, and he brought along a couple of others with him. They’ve been absolutely invaluable.

“And that’s only the tip of the iceberg,” she said, clearly excited by the progress. “We’ve seen a flood of craftsmen and gatherers. We’ve got miners, engineers, woodworkers—those faction buffs have been a huge draw, especially among Rebel-aligned NPCs. We’ve probably only managed to snag a handful of people compared to the Viridian factions, but I still think we’re doing good. We even picked up another Shadowmancer—a fourteen-year-old kid from Denmark named Michael.” She paused, her lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “Real sad story, that kid. Parents could only afford one capsule, so he’s in here on his own.”

She glanced away for a second, a hint of pain lingering in the lines of her face. “Anyway,” she said after a beat, “with him on the team, we’ve even managed to get the Darkshard Mine up and in full swing. Churning out Raw Darkshard Ore like there’s no tomorrow. There’s about a thousand pounds down there, and it replenishes every eight hours or so. It’s good. All good. The only real hiccup we’ve had so far is with the Arcane Shadow Cannons. We haven’t been able to find an engineer with the chops or the skill set to alter the plans. We’re working on it, though. I’m sure things will come together.”

She tried to sound reassuring, but I knew her well enough to hear the hint of worry simmering beneath the words.

I took a huge bite of greasy seared pork, savoring the flavor as I processed. “Any other Dark Templars besides the Danish kid?” I asked, trying to change the topic.

“A few,” she said with a nod. “Hold on, let me just pull it up.” She paused, her eyes scanning over something invisible—likely her user interface. “Ah, there it is. Yeah, we picked up one Necromancer from Houston, one Plague Bringer from Belgium, and four more Dark Templars who don’t have specializations yet. Not bad, considering it seems like a pretty rare class overall.”

“Wow,” I said again, feeling a little thunderstruck.

This was all happening so fast. Less than a day ago, we’d been a handful of people with little hope, and now? Now we were an army. Even if a small one. “How are you getting all these people here?” I asked, incredulous. “The swamp’s damn near impossible to navigate. And how in the world are you vetting them?”

She smiled again. “I located a trio of Rebel-aligned initiates from the Mystica Ordo—a cohort of transport specalists in the making. Except, they defected to us in exhange for some hefty bonuses, and now they’re doing all kinds of port skips. Picking people up at a variety of rallying points on the border of the Storme Marshes, then ferrying them back to Yunnam. As to vetting …”She paused, then waved the question away. “The answer is long, tedious, and unimportant, but we’ve got a system worked out.”

Man, Abby was way better at this faction business than I was.

Suprisingly, that didn’t bother me. I wasn’t much of an organizer anyway, so all of this stuff sounded like absolute torture. I was just glad I had someone efficent and capable on my team; I was going to take her advice: find good people, then get out of their way so they could work their magic.

“What about enemies?” I asked before setting down my fork and taking another deep, long pull of coffee, letting the warm liquid heat me up from the inside out.

“A few,” came the chief’s voice. The man dropped into a seat across from me. He looked content, but tired—deep purple bags lingered under his eyes as though he hadn’t gotten a proper wink of sleep in days. “No organized incursions, though,” he continued. “Amara and the Scouts believe they’re unaffiliated travelers, likely looking to curry favor with the empire, or earn a lucrative bounty. But enough of all that,” he said, slouching back in his chair, letting it cradle him. “Tell us how things turned out with the Spider Queen. The Accipiter Scouts report the spiderkin are moving into the jungle around Yunnam, so I assumed it went according to plan, but …” He faded off, leaving the obvious question unasked:

But if you died, maybe things didn’t go so well.

I grinned at the chief. “No, things went fine. Well, mostly. Apparently, the Spider Nation seals their bargains with a blood sacrifice,” I said, before launching into a brief account of my encounter with the spiderkin and the terms of our deal with the arachnoid matriarch.

The chief seemed to deflate a bit after that, built-up tension easing out of his shoulders as he let out a pent-up breath. “Thank all the great gods and goddesses above,” he said as I finished. “In truth, I thought your plan was something of a fool’s errand, but I am genuinely glad to be wrong. With the orbweavers prowling our borders and freeing up our scouts, our manpower and defensive capabilities will increase ten-fold at least. As to the Queen’s act of treachery: do not be overly concerned, Grim Jack. No one has much experience with their kind, but I have more than most, and I’ll tell you this—you should feel honored. The spiderkin are predators to their very core. For the Queen herself to dispatch you in such a grisly fashion is a sign of respect between equals. It means she is taking you seriously and respects your strength and cunning.”

I grunted noncommittally. That was certainly a different way to look at it. But maybe the chief was right—why would I expect them to think or act like humans? With that said, knowing the Queen had “honored” me didn’t do much to mollify me. I shoveled down the last of my pork and flapjacks, enjoying every second, then pushed the tray away and leaned back in my seat, fat and happy. “Any word from Cutter?” I asked, taking a quick survey of the room to make sure I hadn’t missed him.

“Yeah,” Abby replied. “Last I saw him, he was in Yunnam—he’s probably still there. We ended up with a quite a few rogues, but they’re all lowbies. Can barely tell one end of a dagger from the other. He begrudgingly consented to train them up so they won’t be dangerous to themselves. He also got ahold of the mercs in Harrowick—he’s surprisingly competent when he wants to be—and Otto took off a few hours ago to get everything set up. We should have forty or fifty mercs when the time comes. It’ll cost us a pretty penny, but with this influx of new recruits, our faction coffers should manage to cover it.”

“Any word about the Thieves’ Guild or the smugglers?”

She slapped a hand against her forehead. “Yeah, sorry, with everything else on my plate it slipped my mind. He says there’s some sort of complication—I think it might be quest related. You need to go see him as soon as you get done here. Just PM and let me know the deets once you find out.”

I nodded, downed the last of my coffee, and pushed myself to my feet with a groan. Everything still hurt, but with all of the buffs running through me like jet fuel, it felt manageable.

“Hey, Abby,” I said, slipping over and placing a hand on her shoulder. “I just wanted to say thank you, for all this. You’ve done a really good job.”

“You’re doing pretty good too, Jack,” she offered, dimples blossoming as she patted my arm. “And if we pull this Rowanheath thing off, we'll have plenty of time to celebrate properly. Now get out of here, and go take care of the Thieves’ Guild.”

TWENTY-THREE:

Changes

After a brief round of goodbyes, I ambled through the Keep and into the courtyard, staring around all wide-eyed and mystified. Wow, what a difference ten hours could make. The grounds were still run down, sure, but the place already looked completely different. Transformed. The inner wall surrounding the Keep now stood strong and proud, the stones gleaming and clean, free from decay or black water stains. The inner guard towers were operational as well, each manned by hulking stone Keepers to boot; they even sported strange, stationary blasters.

Arcane Shadow Cannons if I didn’t miss my guess completely.

Aside from schematics, this was my first time seeing the cannons, and they were awfully impressing. Bulky things, which burned with a shadowy fire. They looked like the illegitimate child of a Civil War–era cannon and a Tesla Death Ray. I approved wholeheartedly.

A lot of the debris and rubble had been cleared away, while the vines and trees had been trimmed back into something that almost looked orderly. Most surprising of all, though, was the sheer number of people. Not twenty-four hours ago, this place had been a ghost town, home only to a deadly demon that would rip the arms and legs off any unwelcome intruder. And now? Now people of every assortment fluttered around the grounds, talking, training, building, working—even at this ungodly hour. They were everywhere.

Impromptu tents had cropped up, and a few rough wooden structures littered the grounds.

I needed to get down into Yunnam, so I cut through a row of shanty tents—big canvas things built of tan leather and crude stitching—and headed for the port pad, located in the outer courtyard. I weaved my way through a few more lean-tos, keeping my head down, but nodding politely at the people I passed. It took me a few minutes, but eventually, I emerged from the tent city and skirted around the outside of the barracks: a boxy, three-story stone structure with folks loitering along terraces jutting from each floor. The port pad, an elaborate metal circle, carved with intricate runes and inlaid directly into the earth, was just next to the building.

Unfortunately, there was a line of people, fifteen deep, waiting patiently to hitch a ride into town.

Some Wode mage, clad in brown beginner robes, stood near the pad, lazily waving people through, his eyes glazed over in boredom. Probably just some lowbie recruit, stuck pulling a combination of guard duty and crowd control. I sighed, went to the back of the line, crossed my arms, and tapped a foot impatiently. I endured in silence for a few minutes, but the line was moving at a snail’s pace, and finally I got fed up and slipped to the front. I really didn’t want to be some kind of entitled jerk, but I needed to find Cutter ASAP—everything was riding on the Smugglers Union, and we didn’t have a ton of time.

Besides, technically I owned this property. I didn’t want to lord that over anyone, but at the same time, I figured it probably afforded me a fast-pass at the very least.

Some hulking, armor-clad Risi near the front eyed me making my move and pivoted out of line, maneuvering until he was firmly in my way. He was a big, beefy guy with tree-trunk arms and a thin Mohawk racing down the center of his head. He was built like a post-apocalyptic brick shithouse and looked like he belonged in one of those classic Mad Max flicks from back in the day. In V.G.O., you couldn’t tell someone’s level at a glance—that info was private, which made PvP a particular challenge—but his shoddy, rust-speckled armor and dull, low-quality axe told me he was still a lowbie.

The Risi grunted at me and dropped one hand to the head of his axe blade, clearly trying to intimidate me. “Hey, pal,” he said, voice guttural and unfriendly, “everyone’s in a rush, but we all wait our turn. Fair and square. That’s how this whole thing works.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you—” I started. Before I could finish, however, the Risi interrupted me.

“Nope,” he grunted with a shake of his head. “Everyone’s got excuses, and I don’t have a mind to hear ’em. Now, I don’t want to get in a knock-down-drag-out with you, bub, but you ain’t cutting me.” He paused, glancing around. “You ain’t cutting none of us. So get back in line, unless you have a mind to lose a few teeth.” He reached out a ham-hock hand and gave me a gentle shove in the chest. Not enough to hurt me, but enough to warn that there’d be consequences if I didn’t listen.

Unfortunately, touching me like that on the Keep grounds seemed to be the absolute worst possible thing to do.

Two pillars of molten fire erupted on either side of me as a pair of stony Keepers materialized from the ground. In an eyeblink, one of them had the meathead pinned in a tight bear hug and was hefting him into the air like a naughty toddler. Poor guy looked like he was about to swallow his tongue from the shock. I felt genuinely bad for him. He was a little pushy, true, but he was just trying to keep things fair. In a way, that’s what this whole faction was all about: fighting back against a bunch of unfair, elitist bullshit.

“It’s cool,” I said, eyeing each of the disgruntled Keepers in turn. “Please put him down, we were joking around. A little roughhousing between friends. Just drop him and go back to doing whatever you were doing before. I’ve got this.”

The Keeper holding the man aloft growled, a deep rumble in his chest, but he did drop the Risi as instructed. Then, showing a remarkable degree of intelligence, the Keeper snarled at the warrior—the warning clear—before turning and shambling back toward the Keep with his buddy, leaving the line of onlookers at the pad in shocked silence.

The Risi stared at me for a long moment, then glanced away, shuffling anxiously from foot to foot. “You must be some kinda bigshot, then?” he asked.

“Faction Leader,” I replied softly. Everyone in the line seemed to wince and groan in unison.

“Figures,” the big man said, resigned, his giant frame wilting. “I always do this,” he muttered before reaching up and thumping his skull with a fist the size of a dinner plate. “It’s my temper. Couldn’t keep a job back in the real world. I get a new chance here, and what do I do? Pick a fight with the boss on day one. Idiot. Idiot.” He shook his head, shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’ll just get my stuff and go.”

“What?” I asked, dropping a reassuring hand onto his shoulder. “No, don’t do that. You were trying to do the right thing—I can respect that. You don’t have to go.”

“Really?” he asked hesitantly, glancing at me through heavily lidded eyes. “You mean it?”

“Yeah,” I said with a forced chuckle. “Don’t sweat it. We’re all in this thing together, man. What’s your name, anyway? Where you from?”

“Jack Forge,” he replied, his voice suddenly firmer, more sure, “but people, well they just call me Forge. Used to be with the Second Battalion Second Marine, outta Lejeune. That was ’bout ten years back. I’m in construction now. Down in Texas. Well”—he paused and pressed his eyes shut—“well, I used to be in construction. Before the end, I mean,” he finished weakly.

“Forge,” I said, “mind if I ask you a question?”

He shifted uncomfortably again, as though he were afraid my lenience was all some ruse, and I was now about to bring the hammer down on him. Still, he reluctantly nodded.

“Why’d you join this faction?” I asked. “You’re a Risi, and clearly a warrior, so it seems like the empire would’ve been a better fit.”

The man squinted at me, his lips pulling back into a frightful sneer, revealing a pair of sharp fangs jutting from his lower lip. “Not on my life,” he replied, then leaned over and hawked a loogie onto the grass. “Bunch of cocksuckers if you ask me. Absolute turdbaggery, what that Osmark fella did. I’m an American, and I don’t truck with no empire.” He imbued the word with absolute scorn. “Why, we broke away from kings and empires back in 1776, and I’ll be damned if I give all that up to follow some tech billionaire who thinks he’s got a divine mandate to rule. I’m no slave. You folks seem to be against what he’s about, so here I am.”

He ended his little spiel with a shrug, as though to say what else could I have done.

I offered him a lopsided smile.

Back IRL, I’d known more than a few people like Forge—down-to-earth, levelheaded folks who weren’t afraid to work hard or stand up for what they believed in. It was good to see some of that spirit still alive and kicking despite everything that’d happened. “Well, I’m Grim Jack,” I said, offering him my hand. He accepted my proffered limb and pumped hard enough to leave my shoulder aching. “And you’ve got a place here, Forge. We need people like you. People who are willing to buck the system. That’s all of us, am I right? Now I’m really sorry, but I have to get to Yunnam—our future depends on it, but I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

“Thank you,” he said awkwardly as I pried my hand away and stepped onto the port pad. “If you ever need someone, I’m your man. I’m the toughest sumabitch in Bell County, and I’ve got your back, Jack.” He offered me a terrifying grin that made me think he probably was the toughest SOB in all of Texas. Period.

I nodded politely as the pad engaged with a blinding flash.

In a wink, I found myself on an identical metal ring down in the center of Yunnam, not far from the chief’s towering, moss-covered tree. Forge. I’d have to tell Abby to keep an eye out for him, see if there wasn’t something we could do for him. I put the man from mind as I made my way through town, asking sleepy-looking residents about Cutter, until I found him in a new area that the clansfolk were calling “the training ground.” Really it was just a shallow pit the size of a basketball court filled with gritty, gray swamp sand. Almost unbelievably, Cutter was marching around the pit’s edge, shouting at sixteen or so lowbie Rogues training in the dirt.

He watched them fight through squinted eyes, his hands laced behind his back. The pose reminded me of my dad, a former Marine and Drill Instructor. My dad made us clean house once a week—an event he endearingly called field day—and when I was done, he’d inspect my room with that same scrutinizing look plastered on his face.

“Adjust your blade, boy,” Cutter barked at one of his new recruits, his voice sharp and unwavering. Very out of character. “You want it parallel to your forearm for that maneuver.” He moved on to the next trainee in line, shouting about sloppy footwork, before laying into the next recruit about shoddy dagger technique. I knew from experience that Cutter was a good teacher—he’d trained me in the art of Stealth and had shown me the ropes of basic fighting—but this just didn’t seem like him.

I noticed Amara standing in the deep shadow of a nearby building, arms crossed, watching our resident Rogue work. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her head canted slightly to one side, a look of not-quite-admiration lingering on her face. She had issues with Cutter, but watching her watch him … I couldn’t help but think maybe she also sort of liked him. Or at least respected him. I edged up next to her; she was so absorbed in scrutinizing the training session that she didn’t even notice my presence until I was leaning against the wall right next to her.

“Amara,” I whispered, trying not to startle her.

She jumped a little anyway, shaking her head, then turning a frosty glare on me. Her features softened a bit when she saw it was only me, and the sneer on her lips slipped away. “Oh,” she said, “it’s you. I thought for a moment it was another fool Rogue, come to try their luck at pickpocketing me. Cutter”—she nodded at the man—“has tasked all the new recruits with trying to steal a token from my pouch. A great feat of skill, he calls it.” She almost sounded pleased. “It has not ended well for any of them, but Cutter seems to find it vastly amusing nonetheless.”

“I can’t believe he’s training people,” I murmured, leaning up against the wall, watching him pace back and forth, correcting technique with every pass.

“It is strange,” Amara agreed after a lapse of silence. “Most times, he is so lazy. So arrogant. So brazen and disrespectful. Yet at other times, there are glimpses of something else. Of someone else. Of a man with honor and resolve and great skill. He confuses me. He is driven by a nature which I cannot wrap my mind around—very different from Baymor or any other Dokkalfar I have ever met.” She pressed her lips into a humorless smile, eyes squinted as though, if she just looked hard enough, she might be able to make sense of him.

Cutter was making another round when he glanced up and noticed me and Amara hiding out in the deep shadow. “Alright,” he shouted, “that’s enough for tonight, class. It’s been a long bloody day for all of us. You lot are far from trained, but hopefully you should be able to keep from stabbing yourselves. Good work, now go get some rest. But shower first—you all smell like the inside of an old boot.” With that, he turned and beelined toward us.

“Amara,” he said with a crooked grin. “Hope the trainees haven’t been too much trouble.”

She stared at him, face flat and unamused. “No trouble for me,” she replied, completely deadpan, “though the next one to try to pickpocket me is going to lose a finger instead of merely having it broken. Now, if you’ll excuse me—there are fortifications to see to yet.” She gave me a polite nod and Cutter a scathing glower before strutting off and disappearing around one of the stilt houses.

“Helluva woman, she is,” Cutter said, staring after her.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Be careful with her,” I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone more terrifying. She’ll break you in two.”

“Not terrifying,” he muttered absently, “fiery. I admire fiery.”

I snorted. “You’re something else, you know that? And what was all that with the recruits? Since when did you start caring about people? Or helping them?”

“Helped you, didn’t I?” he shot back with a shrug. “Besides, I’m just tryin’ to do my part. And, they’re good blokes, most of ’em. Couple of sods, but mostly good. Awful Rogues, though. Tripping all over themselves. Couldn’t pick a lock to save their lives. Embarrassing, really.” He frowned and shook his head.

“Yeah, but babysitter just doesn’t seem to fit you,” I said, shooting for lighthearted.

“Look, let’s not make this weird, alright?” Cutter replied, sour as a lemon. “My old man passed away when I was a wee lad, and Gentleman Georgie, well he took me under his wing and showed me the ropes when no one else would. So now, I have a certain soft spot for wayward misfits like that bunch there. It’s the same reason I helped you out in the first place—because you were a hapless loser. So there it is. I’m a bit of a bleeding heart. Now, lay off or I won’t tell you about the Thieves’ Guild.” He paused and cocked an eyebrow at me. “You do want to know what they said, right?”

“Tell me,” I replied, suppressing a laugh. To think, Cutter wasn’t all about money, women, and booze after all. There was something legitimately decent hiding beneath his rough edges. Eldgard seemed to become a stranger place every day.

My good mood quickly vanished as Cutter started to spill the beans on Rowanheath’s most illustrious and clandestine organization.

Apparently, there were serious complications revolving around an outstanding quest I had regarding the guild’s unofficial leader, Gentleman Georgie. It looked like, if we wanted any help from the guild or the Smugglers Union, we were going to have to solve the mystery and put things right. Worse, due to quest restrictions, Cutter and I were going to have to do it alone. With a sigh, I pinged Abby, letting her know what I’d found out, then we set off in search of one of those new transport specialists.

TWENTY-FOUR:

Thief in the Night

We ported to a little one-horse, Wode town called Kaldalen, about two hours south of Rowanheath. A tiny place of maybe three hundred residents with dirt streets, wooden houses, and thatched roofs, all surrounded by grassy plains, a spattering of pine trees, and domineering mountains cutting across the darkened skyline to the north. An idyllic place, taken straight off a Swedish travel brochure.

We’d wanted to port directly into Rowanheath, but unfortunately that option was no longer on the table. Since all members of the Crimson Alliance were now classified as Imperial enemies, we couldn’t directly teleport into any city owned by an Imperial faction. A nasty fact we’d learned from one of the magical transport specialists Abby had managed to poach for our cause. It was severely inconvenient, but it was also something of a relief, since that meant none of Osmark’s goons could just appear inside Yunnam and unleash havoc wholesale.

We weren’t completely out of luck though.

Any non-faction-controlled city, regardless of “allegiance,” was fair game for porting and trading, and there were loads and loads of those littering Eldgard’s countryside. In terms of defense, I’d even say we had an advantage over the empire, since there were a comparatively small number of cities in the Storme Marshes, and none of them were close to Yunnam. If the Imperials wanted to sack our town, they’d have to trek all the way through the Marshes with their force; I almost laughed at the thought of someone trying to push a siege tower through the dense forests and murky bogs.

The trek up the North Road took us twice as long as it should have since I still had the crippling pain from Death’s Sting to deal with. I had to stop, rest, and eat every mile or so, otherwise my legs would simply give out and refuse to work. I’d be limping along okay one minute, only to find myself facedown on the gritty road the next. On the plus side, by the time we did finally trudge up to the gates of the Rowanheath, Death’s Sting had worn off, taking the godawful pain with it. I still sported the debuffs from Death’s Curse for another four hours, but so long as I could walk and fight, I considered it a win.

Rowanheath’s fortified defensive wall—an enormous thing, which formed a giant horseshoe across the front of the city proper—gave me a small pause though. For a long beat, I just stood there staring up at the giant Keep looming high above the city, framed in by a series of treacherous mountain peaks. The place was a hulking monstrosity: all hard lines, gray stone, high walls, and domineering circular turrets carved directly into the mountain face itself. It wasn’t a place designed for beauty, it was a place designed for war. Designed to repel enemies and withstand a prolonged siege.

By sunset tomorrow, I was going to try and storm it. The cold flutter of butterfly wings in my belly sent shivers along my arms. Cutter nudged me hard in the ribs, breaking me away from my dark thoughts.

“Ready to do this, friend?” he asked, stealing a sly sidelong glance at a quartet of mean-looking NPC Legionaries standing at the gate. They all wore Roman-looking lorica armor—segmented, overlapping leather plates in dark reds and blacks—and crested helms, and each carried a gleaming halberd. According to Cutter, only those with the highest levels of Stealth and a Master’s level proficiency or higher in both the Whisper Step and Silent Master abilities could successfully sneak past gate guards. Apparently, not even Cutter could slip past the hard-chargers on post.

But with our new faction ability, Dignitary, he could cast Anonymous and walk right on in.

Theoretically, at least. Assuming everything went right.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t use the Anonymous ability on account of being an “Exalted Enemy” of the empire. Still, I had a few tricks up my sleeve. I watched nervously from the shadows, the hood of my cloak pulled up around my face, as Cutter activated Dignitary and strutted forward like a man without a care in the world. He walked tall, back straight, chin raised, confidence oozing off him in waves. The guards stopped him at the gate, of course, but after a few tense minutes, they broke out in affable smiles and waved him through, before turning their hard gazes back to the road.

I watched Cutter shuffle into a dark alley, well away from the sentries, then took a deep calming breath and triggered my Shadow Stride ability.

A flash of dark power, a swirl of purple shadow, exploded out of me, and suddenly I found myself in the monochromatic Shadowverse with everyone frozen around me. I had thirty seconds on the clock. With a nervous grin, I stole from my hiding spot and scrambled toward the gate, irrationally expecting the guards to somehow spring to life and apprehend me, despite the fact that I was currently strolling through a different dimension. My worries were misplaced, though, and I managed to walk right by without a hitch.

They just stood there, stupid and still like a bunch of statues, as I breached the city’s defenses.

I found myself silently thanking God above for my class—maybe I wasn’t the most powerful warrior on the planet, but damn did the Shadowmancer Kit have some cool perks.

With the countdown timer rushing toward zero, I hastily made my way into the alley, past Cutter, who was pressed against one wall, then stepped back into reality from the Shadowverse. Cutter jumped a little, startled by my abrupt reappearance, but no one else seemed to notice.

“I’ve got to admit,” he said, giving me a once-over, “I wasn’t sure that was going to work. Good plan. Maybe you’re more useful than I give you credit for,” he offered before heading out onto the street, only lightly packed with foot traffic at such a late hour. “Now”—he glanced at me over one shoulder—“all we have to do is get to the Broken Dagger in one piece. The residents shouldn’t take any notice of you, not unless they’re very, very patriotic—and this lot isn’t—but if you see guard patrols, duck and cover. Got it?”

“Loud and clear,” I said. “Lead the way.” I waved toward the cobblestone street beyond.

We made our way through a chaotic warren of twisting streets and dirty alleys, careful to keep our hoods up and our faces down. It was probably just my overactive imagination, but it sure seemed like all of the olive-skinned, robe-wearing Viridians were staring at us, even though they said nothing. Just nerves, I suppose.

Still, I made sure not to make eye contact with any of them, instead turning my attention to the cityscape around us. Most of the buildings stood two or three stories tall and were built in a sporadic, haphazard fashion, many leaning drunkenly to one side or the other. The place was a patchwork of homes and shops—some smooth stone, others rough wood, a few built from pasty white plaster—which reflected a wide array of backgrounds. I hadn’t traveled very widely in V.G.O., but after spending so much time in-game, it was easy to see the slapdash elements of the various game cultures:

The hard edges and intricately designed Celtic artwork, which seemed to adorn every Wode building. The clean lines and elegant tooled script, which was a hallmark of the Dawn Elves. The plain but meticulous craftsmanship of the Dwarves was easy to spot, even at a distance. Only the Murk Elves and the bird-winged Accipiter seemed underrepresented.

Cutter led us down the main thoroughfare for a few minutes before slipping into a narrow alley, which connected to a smaller side street of dirt and gravel. We trudged on while a handful of hardworking hawkers cried their wares—meat pies, knives, skill training, potions, and just about everything else under the sun—though there were far fewer vendors out and about than the first time I’d come through here. Probably because we were creeping up on 1 AM—this might’ve been a game in theory, but it mimicked real life, and even the NPCs needed rest. One man, a lanky-limbed Wode with greasy hair and a potbelly, tried to stop Cutter and sell him a dagger.

One hard look from the thief sent the seller on his way, and that was the last time the vendors bothered us.

After a few more minutes, we hooked right, cutting through a claustrophobic cross street, which dumped us onto a wider boulevard of paved stone worn from hard use, but almost empty at this hour. This, I’d come to learn, was Porter’s Road—the main thoroughfare for coaches, carts, and caravans. The road was also home to a good chunk of the cities mid-end businesses. Nothing too fancy here, but a traveler could find just about anything they needed: there were tailors, weavers, apothecaries, grocers, fletchers, bakers, and blacksmiths. Wooden signs, decorated with pictures displaying each shop’s purpose, hung above rough doorways.

An anvil and hammer on one. A pair of scissors and a bolt of fabric adorned another. A potter’s wheel a little further on.

We hastily made our way up the road, before darting into the mouth of yet another alley—this one cloaked in deep shadow—and heading for an unmarked three-story building of plaster with an unassuming black door, devoid of any kind of markings. The Broken Dagger. A members-only tavern and inn, which also happened to be home to the Rowanheath Thieves’ Guild. Or union, as Cutter insisted, since guild was too formal a term.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice hissed at us from a deep pool of black as Cutter reached for the door handle. A second later, a whip-thin man, maybe 5'10", garbed in dark leathers with a pair of daggers tucked into his belt, materialized in front of our eyes. I didn’t know his name, but I vaguely recognized him from my first visit to the Broken Dagger. He’d been guarding the door that sectioned off the training facilities and Guild barracks from the rest of the inn.

“Neriah, you dirty sod,” Cutter said with a grin, striding forward and embracing the man in a rough hug. “Good to bloody see you, mate.”

“You too.” The man gave Cutter a thump on the back. “Who’s the outsider?” he asked, nodding to me.

Cutter glanced at me. “No worries, he’s a friend. Not a thief, but I’ll vouch for him.”

“Good ’nough for me,” Neriah replied with a sniff. “You dropped off the face of the map for a while, there,” he said to Cutter, “but for once I’m glad. Things have been …” He trailed off, furtively glancing this way and that as though the night itself might have ears. “Well, odd, mate. Very odd. Best if we talk about it elsewhere, well away from here, if you take my meaning.”

“Of course,” Cutter replied, thumbing his nose conspiratorially.

Silently, we edged away from the Broken Dagger, moving from shadow to shadow, sticking mostly to back alleys as we made our way into a different section of town. The streets, here, were poorly maintained and lined with garbage and grime of all sorts, not to mention the snoring bodies tucked under thick blankets. Apparently, even in Eldgard homelessness was a real problem—though whether the sleepers were travelers or NPCs, I couldn’t say. The buildings were shoddy more often than not, the roofs thatch instead of wooden slats or ceramic tile.

We were in the slums.

“So what the hell is going on?” Cutter asked as we walked, his voice just above a whisper.

“It’s Georgie,” Neriah said. “He’s been wonky ever since he came back from the business trip a week ago. There’s something wrong with him. He ain’t right in the head.” He tapped a thin finger against his temple. “Not anymore. Worse, all the higher-ups, why they’ve gone just as bleeding mad in the noggin. Believe it or not, but you’re now our highest ranked member—at least the highest ranked member still playing with all his chips.” He shook his head. “Our whole operation is bollocks now. Complete bollocks. Can’t get a thing done. And the smugglers are in a damned pickle.”

“The smugglers?” Cutter asked, confusion in his voice. “What do they have to do with this? They run their own show.”

“Right on the nose,” the man replied as we cut through a claustrophobic alley which dead-ended at a giant hole, covered with a rusted metal grate. “But Georgie and his crew of loonies moved into the sewers. Well, technically, they’re holed up in the Plague Tunnels, but it’s wreaking havoc for the smugglers. Anyone they send down there goes missing”—he snapped his fingers—“gone in a blink. One sorry bloke made it back topside. Raving mad, he was. Blathering on about monsters, demons, torture, experimentation. Well, we can’t get a damn thing done, and since Georgie is one of our own, we have to handle it in-house.”
Cutter’s eyes touched on the sewer grate, then flicked back over to his friend. He groaned, finally putting two and two together. “Gods, Neriah. You want me to go down there?” He hooked a thumb toward the sewer. “And not just there, but into the Plague Tunnels.”

The man grimaced, then nodded. “Sorry, mate, but it’s your obligation as highest ranking member to handle it, but more than that: if you want help from the smugglers, you’ll need to fix this first. No way around it. So, what do you say?”

“Bollocks,” Cutter muttered before turning to me. “I need to do this one way or the other, friend, but this is your show, so if you don’t want to come, I’ll understand. What say you?”

A quest update flashed before me.

Quest Update: Imposter Georgie

Gentleman Georgie has been acting strange, and it’s likely a black priest of Serth-Rog has replaced him and his top lieutenants with doppelgangers. Now, Gentleman Georgie has moved his operation into the Plague Tunnels deep beneath Rowanheath, preventing the Smugglers from accessing the sewer ways. Get to the bottom of Gentleman Georgie’s strange shift in personality.

Quest Class: Unique, Personal

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Help Cutter get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding Gentleman Georgie’s sudden personality change and clear out the cultists obstructing the sewer ways.

Failure: Refuse to help Cutter or allow him to die before the mission is complete.

Reward: In gratitude, the Smugglers will agree to guide you and your men through the exterior mining shafts, located outside of Rowanheath, and into the sewers free of charge.

Accept: Yes/No?

I wasn’t too keen on tromping through a bunch of smelly sludge, and the Plague Tunnels sounded pretty horrific, but this was the only way, so reluctantly I accepted.

TWENTY-FIVE:

The Weaponeer

Cutter and I skirted along the narrow catwalks lining either side of the sewer way. In between us ran a river of mucky slime with a terrible odor like an old porta-john left to sit too long in the noonday sun. It was a bit strange actually, since I hadn’t run across a single toilet anywhere in Eldgard and no one—players or NPCs alike—actually seemed to have any need for the bathroom. Yet, here, flowing beneath Rowanheath like a sludgy, disgusting river, was actual sewage. Rancid crap, to be precise. And despite the obvious discrepancy, Cutter just took it in stride like every other wonky thing in V.G.O.

I chalked it up as an oddity—like Bags of Holding or a hundred other completely improbable RPG features—and refused to ask Cutter about it. That wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have.

Despite the unfortunate smell, the sewers were surprisingly easy to navigate and hadn’t posed much of a challenge so far. The tunnels were laid out in an orderly grid, wall-mounted torches—presumably used by the local smugglers—illuminated everything, and the few mobs present, all [Sewer Rats], went down without a fight. A flick of Cutter’s blade or a twirl of my warhammer saw them off in a blink. As a gamer, I was guessing this zone was probably a lowbie starting area. Most MMO cities had locations like this, which always seemed to be the scene of clear-out-the-rat-infestation type quests assigned by NPCs of all sorts.

“Pretty easy going so far,” I remarked offhandedly.

Another rat—gray, mangy, and about the size of a large cat—skittered around a corner at the noise and lunged at me. I blasted it with Umbra Bolt from a distance, sending its furry corpse to the bottom of the sewage trough. I kept right on walking—that was one body I didn’t intend to loot. Wading through that foul sludge for a rat pelt and a handful of coppers wasn’t worth it.

“Yeah,” Cutter replied, twirling his blade in anxious motion, eyes scanning the waterline, “no one likes coming down here—it’s the smell of piss and shite—but the mobs aren’t nothing to write home about. Most dangerous things around these parts is the occasional Shite-Blob. True story, that’s actually what they’re called. Shite-Blobs. Sometimes, bits of spirit energy from above leaks down and contaminates the waste water, animates it for a bit. Disgusting little buggers. But it won’t be long until we reach the Plague Tunnels, and that’s a whole different story.”

Another rat burst from the muck not two feet away from Cutter, but the thief sliced it down in midair without a moment’s hesitation or worry. His dagger parted the furry rodent’s head cleanly from its neck, and a splatter of fetid blood rained down on the ground.

“So what should I expect to find in the Plague Tunnels?” I asked, purposefully not looking at the bloody rat corpse adorning the walkway.

He held up a wait-a-minute finger as we passed through a gray-stone archway and emerged into a circular hub with new tunnels shooting off like the spokes of a bike wheel. The whole intersection looked oddly out of place. The tunnels we’d traversed so far had been built from rugged yellow brick, but this whole chamber was carved from slabs of ancient gray granite, which featured a host of runic inscriptions and carvings of one variety or another. I couldn’t read any of it, but even at a glance I could tell it was old—far older than the rest of the sewer system.

“What is this?” I asked, spinning slowly as I glanced at the glyphs covering the slab walls.

“This?” Cutter replied. “Used to be part of a temple. Long before Rowanheath was here, before the Wodes came, the Vogthar lived here. Nasty bastards. They ruled over most of Eldgard, but they’re dead now. Their cities gone. Razed to the ground. Their people exterminated. Wodes wiped ’em out during the purge—about eight, nine hundred years ago, this was. A few ruins remain along with some of their sacred sites, but there’s not much. Here in the valley, this room and the Plague Tunnels beyond, that’s what’s left. Come on,” he said, bobbing his head toward a tunnel off to the left, “that’s our path.”

Unfortunately, this new section of sewer didn’t have any nifty catwalks, so we had to slog through hazy, knee-deep goop, the slosh, slosh, slosh of our movements echoing off the old stonework and crumbling brick. “For a long, long time, the Plague Tunnels sat abandoned,” Cutter said idly as we trudged along. “But about a hundred years ago, there was a big famine and with it came the Plague.

“The Blood Plague, people called it. Killed lots of folks, but it was a slow process. Real slow. Could take weeks, sometimes even a month or more. And sometimes, those who died wouldn’t stay dead. They’d get right back up and start attacking healthy folks. Least, that’s the way legend has it. The Plague Tunnels have some powerful containment wards—left over from the time of the Vogthar—so the city militia rounded up everyone who was sick or dead and corralled ’em in there. Left ’em to rot down in the dark. An ugly bit of our history, I’ll admit,” he finished with a half-hearted shrug.

He fell silent after that, strangely somber.

We moved on in silence, following the sour waterway for another ten minutes—killing a small platoon of bothersome rats along the way—before finally winding up at a dry section of tunnel, built from more of the ancient gray stone tattooed with glowing runes and ancient script. “Not far at all now,” he whispered at me over one shoulder before dropping into a crouch and vanishing as he embraced Stealth. I followed suit, not knowing what to expect. Cutter froze a minute later as a round of muffled cursing floated to us from up ahead, reverberating off the walls. We weren’t alone down here. It was a man’s voice. A Russian from the sound of him.

I shot a look at Cutter and mouthed what’s going on?

He just frowned and offered me a no-clue shrug. My inbox pinged a second later, which seemed suspiciously timed. I reached out and grabbed Cutter by the shoulder before he could ghost away. “Hold on a sec,” I whispered urgently while pulling up my interface. Quickly, I scrolled over to my inbox—the new PM was from none other than Sophia. Sophia the Overmind.

Personal Message:

Sorry I’ve been a bit aloof, running the world is surprisingly more complicated than you might imagine, but I haven’t forgotten about you. Not completely. First, let me say I wholeheartedly approve of the job you and Abby are doing—bang-up work, really. Making a deal with the Spider Queen was a bold move, and your plan to take on Carrera is brilliant. Frankly, that’s exactly the kind of unconventional thinking I was hoping for from a couple of wild-card humans. There’s one hitch in the plan, unfortunately: Abby still hasn’t found someone capable of modifying the Arcane Shadow Cannons. Believe it or not, but it’s a bit trickier than you’re thinking. Siege engines are specifically designed to be big or immovable, so you can’t teleport them. But never fear, there’s a loophole.

Just down the corridor is a very unique traveler, a former Russian weapons engineer, who is on the verge of acquiring a truly rare class kit: Alchemic Weaponeer. There are less than a handful of them in V.G.O., and this one is Factionless. Admittedly, he’s a bit useless now—a clueless newb who’s never played an RPG in his life—and not a fighter by any stretch of the imagination, but once he acquires his proper class, just get some weapon or machine blueprints into his hands and stand back. As the Overmind of Quest Creation, I gave him a class-specific assignment that would guarantee you’d cross paths. I can’t promise he’ll join you, but if you help him out, I’d say there’s a good chance of it. Now, off you go—and don’t “screw the pooch” as you Americans sometimes say.

You’re Welcome

—Sophia

I grinned in spite of myself.

I was still wary of Sophia’s help and interference, but she certainly had a knack for pitching in at exactly the right moments. Maybe having her on our side wasn’t such a bad thing after all. I inched up next to Cutter, gave him an abbreviated rundown of what I’d just found out, and then together, we crept up to a “T” intersection. The path on the right quickly dead-ended at a wall of rubble and debris—caved in at some point in the distant past. The path on the left, however, continued on for another fifty feet or so before stopping at a hulking, circular stone door, carved with glowing green runes, which reminded me of a bank vault.

A man stood in front of the door, beating on it with curled fists, muttering angry curses in both English and Russian. He was a Dawn Elf with golden skin and a sheet of platinum hair hanging down to his shoulders. His gear was rough and threadbare—beginner equipment if I’d ever seen it—and he looked both exhausted and hungry. I wasn’t sure what he’d experienced so far, but I was guessing it hadn’t been good. The man gave one more hearty pound on the door’s front, then threw his hands up in frustration and began to pace back and forth across the breadth of the hallway.

“Bozhe, ya nenavizhu eto mesto!” He screamed into the air, shaking a fist at the heavens.

Finally, he took a deep, shuddering breath, slumped against one of the tunnel walls, and slid down onto his ass. He laced his hands through his hair and bowed his head—the look of a man utterly broken and completely defeated. “Why did I choose this?” he asked no one, his voice hollow and flat. “Perhaps I could have survived on the outside—but no, I had to take all my savings and buy a capsule. A derr`mo, American capsule. Now here I am, stuck in this awful place—where a guy can’t even get a bowl of borscht—by myself, forever.” He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his knees into his chest, slinging his arms around his shins. “I wish I were dead.”

Poor guy, I thought. If he’d never played an MMORPG before, this would definitely be the worst kind of culture shock—not to mention he was surely dealing with the emotional fallout of the entire world ending less than a day ago.

I stood, letting Stealth fall away, then took a few, exaggerated steps so the sound of my footfalls carried down the hallway. I didn’t want to scare the guy.

His head shot up in an instant, and his eyes, a soft purple, shot wide as he spotted me and Cutter. He scrambled to his feet in a hurry, dropping low, fishing a rusty dagger from his side as a snarl split his face. “Leave me alone,” he said, his accent made thicker by fear. “You mu’daks have already had your fun, now leave me be.”

I raised my hands slowly, keeping my weapon at my side. “Hey, I don’t know who you think we are, but we’re not them, and we’re not here to hurt you.”

The man squinted suspiciously, scrutinizing us thoroughly before finally giving a brief nod and standing. He didn’t sheath his dagger, though. “Apologies,” he said curtly. “It has been a bad couple of days for me. These Imperial-aligned thugs, they keep finding me and killing me. I had one friend, an NPC I started with—they killed him, too. Now, I’m by myself with next to no money, next to no gear, and stuck at this stupid door.” He spun and slammed his hand against the slab in anger. “I have one final quest in order to unlock my specialist kit and no way to complete it.”

Yep, this poor guy sure had a rough go of things—it sounded like some higher-level players had grave camped him. “Why do these people keep killing you?” I asked.

He screwed his face up in distaste. “The Imperial-aligned players are going through the town, purging any travelers who refuse to join one of the Imperial factions. The NPCs, they seem to get a pass, but everyone else has a target on their back. Most people have either signed up or moved on to different towns, but me?” He hooked a thumb at himself. “I can’t go. I need to get my class specialization first, and the only way to do that is to defeat a bunch of cultists hiding out in the Plague Tunnels. First chance I get, I’m leaving. Now, if you are one such Imperial, then kill me and be done with it.”

“Bollocks, I like this guy,” Cutter said to me with a lopsided grin. The thief rounded on the man, a shifty smile parting his lips. “Got some stones on you, haven’t you? Well, you just happen to be in luck, friend. You’re not gonna even believe it, but this bloke right here”—he jerked his head toward me—“is none other than Grim Jack Shadowstrider. Leader of the Crimson Alliance, which happens to be the only Rebel-aligned traveler faction in all of Eldgard. At least for the time being.”

For a moment, the man didn’t respond; we all just stood there while the silence stretched into a painfully uncomfortable thing. “This is true?” he finally asked, suspicion thick in his words. “You are a Rebel faction leader?”

I nodded, doing my best to look intimidating and powerful. The way a faction leader should look, instead of like a thirty-two-year-old EMT with no leadership experience.

“Now, as you might imagine,” Cutter continued, slicker than any used car salesman I’d ever seen, “we’re sorta the underdogs in this situation, and we’re looking for people just like you to join our cause—”

“Like me,” the Russian interrupted, slipping his knife into its sheath, then folding his arms. “I’m a level four Alchemist with no money, weapons, skills, or combat ability.”

Cutter waved his protest away and offered him a reassuring smile. “Trust me, friend, we’re looking for people exactly like you. Now, as it turns out, we also have business in the Plague Tunnels. So how’s about we join up, eh? You sign on with the Crimson Alliance, we’ll help you complete your quest as a show of good faith, then we’ll bring you back to our base camp in the Storme Marshes. You’ll find it a much more agreeable place, I’ll wager. We can set you up with a place to stay, get you a decent meal to eat, even see you get out of that tattered garbage you’re currently sporting.”

“But this stupid door,” the man protested weakly, waving at the unmoving slab.

Cutter shrugged, then casually sauntered past him. He ran his hands over the surface of the rock, pushing here, prodding there, tracing a finger over a few of the glowing runes. After a few seconds, there was an audible click followed by a clang and a crunch as the door swung outward, a fine shower of dust raining down in its wake. “A deadlock door,” he said nonchalantly, glancing over his shoulder, smugness radiating off him in waves. “She’s got a specialty lock built right into the stone—you either need a town guard with a key or a world-class thief for a thing like this.”

The man broke into an uneven smile, eyeing the passageway beyond.

“I’m Vlad Nardoir, from Saint Petersburg. It is truly a pleasure to meet you both. Now, how do I sign up?”

TWENTY-SIX:

Plague Tunnels

Our new companion, Vlad, was forty-three, very Russian, and a former weapons designer for some company called Almaz-Antey. He also wasn’t much of a talker—even getting that much personal information out of him was like pulling teeth from an angry crocodile. Aside from a semester I spent overseas in Prague, I’d never really traveled abroad, nor did I have any Russian friends, so I wasn’t sure if his tight-lipped nature was a cultural trait or strictly a Vlad trait. It was okay, though, since we didn’t have much time for chitchat, not with all the atrociously difficult mobs the Plague Tunnels offered.

No easily dispatched sewer rats, here.

Oh no.

Mostly, there were zombies—heaps and heaps and heaps of zombies, all in different stages of decay. Some were little more than shambling piles of sinew and bone, clad in the tatters of old armor, wielding rusty weapons. Others looked a bit fresher: their skin molted and sloughing off in places, revealing slick patches of rotting muscles beneath. Worse, the zombies seemed to retain whatever skill set they’d had in life, so we had to deal with Stealth attacks from fleet-footed thief-zombies, brutal heavy assaults from tank-like fighters, and even the occasional fireball or lightning bolt from a mage-zombie.

On top of that, every single hit had a chance to deal either poison or plague damage, sometimes both, which ate through both my Health and Stamina with a hungry ferocity. As a Murk Elf, my resistance to both disease and poison was naturally higher—currently at 37.8 percent—but Vlad had no such protection. If a zombie so much as looked at the lowbie, he seemed to catch the plague. Literally. The only true saving grace was the fact that the mobs seemed mindless despite retaining their class abilities in death—if they’d worked together as an actual team, they would’ve smoked us in a blink.

I carefully edged around a pile of bones, giving it a wide berth in case it was warded or booby-trapped. Aside from terrible mobs, the Plague Tunnels were also filled to the gills with assorted traps—spiked pits, poison darts, magical flamethrowers. Cutter was ahead somewhere, scouting the way, disarming the various dangers, but I still wasn’t interested in being peppered by an impromptu bone-bomb. Cutter had already missed one trap—something he would never, ever live down in my book—which had earned me a face full of skeletal shrapnel and a temporary, but painful, Plague debuff.

Pretty much, these Tunnels were the worst.

They were all ancient gray stone walls, dusty floors, rusted-out torture equipment, and bones: heaps and heaps of bones. Yellowed femurs, cracked rib cages, fractured skulls—some human, others not. Hulking stone columns ran up the center of each hallway. Dilapidated metal cages and old worn leather restraints dotted the ground, no doubt restraints against plague victims in the grip of debilitating pain. Rusty chains hung sporadically from the ceiling, studded with cruel meat hooks stained with old, rusty-red flakes of blood. Basically, this place would provide me with nightmare fuel for the next hundred years.

At least the mobs gave out better than mediocre loot and some decent EXP.

I’d already crept up past 10,000 points, which put me nearly a quarter of the way to the next level. Vlad was tight-lipped, so he hadn’t mentioned any level gains, but since he’d started at level four, there was a good chance he’d already banked three or four new levels since entering this section of the dungeon.

“Got another group!” Cutter screamed as he scrambled around a corner and tore ass toward me, legs pumping as fast they would go. “Big one,” he yelled, stealing a panicked glance over his shoulder. “They’ve got a couple of Rat Kings, too!”

I groaned and prepared myself.

Cutter skittered to a stop next to me, huffing and puffing from his sprint, as a horde of shambling undead rounded the bend, their moans and groans echoing off the walls as they shuffled toward us on jittery feet. A big group was right. There were at least twenty undead—a couple tanks, a bunch of generic miners with pick axes, some rotting archers, and even a pair of wizards in the back—not to mention a few Rat Kings. The Rat Kings were even worse than the zombies: hulking things which walked on two legs and more closely resembled rabid werewolves than rodents.

Despite every survival instinct screaming at me to run away, I sprinted toward the group, drawing aggro so they’d focus on me instead of Cutter or Vlad.

An inhuman howl went up and suddenly a hail of arrows and a soccer-ball-sized comet of flame were streaking toward me. I thrust my left hand out, conjuring Dark Shield as I ran. A dome of flickering, purple light burst to life in front of me, absorbing or deflecting the incoming projectiles, though eating through my Spirit like a school of hungry piranha. I dismissed the shield a heartbeat later and lashed out with Umbra Bog before they could unleash another volley of arrows. Inky black exploded from the floors and walls beneath the oncoming horde, tendrils of shadow wrapping tight around arms and legs.

With a malicious grin, I dropped my weight and activated my new Plague Burst spell, excited to see it in action for the first time. Knowledge bloomed in the back of my head—a burst of utter inspiration—and suddenly my empty left hand was whipping through the air in a complex series of motions, foreign to me and yet somehow completely natural. Flick, twirl, snap, fingers splayed out, then hand curling into a fist as cold power trickled into my palm. It was mesmerizing to watch, but also a bit disconcerting: all my other spells were instant effect, but the 8 second cast time on this one seemed to take forever and a day.

Beads of nervous sweat broke out along my brow and trickled down my face. Although the mobs were pinned down under the effects of Umbra Bog, the archers could still launch ranged attacks, and I was just standing out here in the open, flapping my hand around without a shred of cover.

I let out a soft sigh of relief as raw power ripped its way free from my body, taking a huge bite out of my dwindling Spirit reserve—the spell was complete. Sadly, I finished just as the snap of bowstrings filled the air with a round of thwangs. I didn’t have time to get a shield in place, and as a result, a trio of arrows peppered my body: one smashed into my gut, another into my shoulder, while the last punched into my thigh. Pain lanced through me like a lightning bolt; I had Shadow Armor firmly in place, which took the edge off the hurt, but I still dropped to a knee, grimacing as I groped at the wood shafts jutting from my body.

As a kid, I once stepped on a rusty nail in my dad’s toolshed—this was like that times a million.

I really needed to bring a proper tank with me in the future: some giant uber goon with a shield as big as a door to duck behind.

Cutter and Vlad were both by my side in a blink, wriggling the shafts free, then tossing them to the side. I was grateful for their help, and even more grateful for the Health Regen potion Vlad slipped me from a pouch at his side. The arrows had only shaved off a fifth of my life, but the gesture was still welcome, and I downed it greedily.

I threw the empty bottle aside and glanced up at the trapped mobs … I nearly sputtered and choked in surprise.

A rancid yellow cloud—thick, billowing, and positively toxic—bled from the air itself and swirled around the small army of monsters, digging at their eyes, clawing at their skin, boring into their yawning mouths. Many of them simply keeled over on the spot, grasping throats as they choked and desperately fought for air. I glanced down at my left hand, then back up at the horde. Damn was that impressive. The cloud dissipated and vanished a few seconds later, though my Spirit meter continued to plummet as the Plague debuff chewed through enemy hit points.

Total, Plague Burst had cost me fifteen seconds, but since I’d upgraded Umbra Bog, we still had a full twenty-five seconds before the spell lapsed.

I crawled back to my feet, hefted my warhammer, and charged at the mob—Cutter and Vlad trailed a step or two behind. More arrows and fireballs flew toward us, but this time I had Dark Shield ready to go, batting aside the attacks with ease. In seconds, we crashed into the horde and began to work our way through them. Cutter moved like smoke and shadow, slitting throats, thrusting his blades into desiccated eyeballs—earning huge Crits—and throwing out a fan of smoky conjured blades which sliced through armor and rotting flesh.

Those shadow blades were definitely a new ability, which could only mean that Cutter was growing as well—his skill set expanding along with mine.

Vlad kept close to the edge of the action, all the better to retreat in case things got too hot, and dealt what miniscule damage he could with his rusty starter dagger.

I put them both from mind as I danced among the undead, swinging, thrusting, smashing, twirling. I was still struggling under the Death’s Curse debuff, which meant my attacks weren’t quite as powerful as they should’ve been, but I still felt good. With those extra points I’d invested into Constitution, I moved faster and breathed easier, and with those 15 extra points invested in Dexterity, my hammer felt as light as a feather in my hands. Zombie heads and skeletal torsos exploded as I whirled by, leaving a cloud of bone dust and bloody mist in my wake.

Sadly, Umbra Bog wore off much too quickly, and the whole mob lurched back into motion, swarming us. The heavy-armor-clad zombie tanks tried to engage me, but I ignored them, feinting, ducking, dodging, and rolling as I headed for the archers and the spellcasters located near the back. Those guys dished out the most damage, but they couldn’t take much, so they were our primary targets. I ducked a big overhand strike from a Risi zombie in plate mail, then blasted him right in the gut with Umbra Bolt.

My attack dropped his HP into the red, but didn’t put him down for good.

An interesting thing happened next, though: instead of coming at me again, the undead warrior pivoted and promptly launched himself at a nearby archer. The Risi tackled the archer around the waist, took him to the ground, then laid into the skeleton with decaying fists, smashing in its bony head with furious blows. It didn’t take long for the rest of the horde to unleash absolute hell on the traitorous zombie warrior, but by the time they’d dispatched him, he’d already taken the archer to the grave.

That was my new Umbra Bolt effect in action, right there. I felt absurdly happy at the small victory.

I didn’t have time to gloat, though, because the pair of fire-wielding mages had retreated to the rear of the hasty formation, while a pair of horrifying Rat Kings blundered toward me, beef-slab arms outthrust, lips pulled back in ferocious snarls. Pound for pound, the Rat Kings were the toughest mobs I’d fought in V.G.O. so far, and I wasn’t even remotely interested in trying to go toe-to-toe with them. They were simply too fast, hit too hard, and could take far too much damage. So instead, I launched into Shadow Stride. The Shadowverse exploded around me in all its monochromatic glory, and the monstrous Rat Kings ground to a halt, only inches away from mauling me.

I slipped behind one, dropped into Stealth, took a few practice swings with my hammer, then emerged back into the real world. The Rat King before me spun wildly, confusion etched into the lines of its fur-covered body, but it was already too late. I smashed in the side of its neck, stacking both Savage Blow and Black Caress into a single, focused blow. Combined with Backstab, those attacks landed for nearly 700 points of damage: the monster Rat didn’t stand a chance. My warhammer ripped through its throat and sent its stumpy, hideous head sailing into the air like a ghoulish pop fly.

The sight was ugly, brutal, and disgusting, but also strangely satisfying.

A flash of light on the right caught my eye—a nasty fireball was streaking my way. I spun and threw out a hand to conjure my Dark Shield, expecting to feel the cold tingle of shadow power rush out of me like hurricane winds … Except nothing happened. I hadn’t been paying attention; my Spirit bar was flashing on empty after all my spell-slinging, and I didn’t have the juice for anything else. I sighed as the undead mage’s fireball smacked into my chest like a jackhammer, hurling me across the hall. My back smashed against the wall and I crumpled to the floor, wheezing for air as tendrils of sooty smoke wafted up from my armor.

I hastily fumbled a Spirit Regen potion from my belt and downed the vial, feeling power immediately wash back through me. But in the time it’d taken to drink the concoction, the remaining Rat King had slipped up in front of me: its huge claws flashed out. I got one gauntlet up in time to prevent the creature from removing my face, but the talons still sliced into my arm, leaving deep, painful furrows behind. I swore and scrambled to swing my warhammer, but the Rat King was already clutching at its neck. A bright red line had appeared almost miraculously across the front of its throat.

Cutter’s grinning face popped up a second later; he held up a dagger dripping with blood.

The Rat King took one staggering step back, then dropped to the floor, taking a last hitching breath before dying. Cutter offered me a hand, which I gladly took, and pulled me upright. I quickly scanned the hallway, expecting to see more zombies rushing toward us, but they were dead. Everything was dead. Between me and Cutter, there wasn’t a monster left standing. Heck, there wasn’t a monster left twitching. Meanwhile, Vlad was hunched over a zombie, carefully rummaging its corpse.

“Everyone okay?” I asked as I idly wiped away a bit of gore that had splattered onto my cheek. Gross.

“Fine,” Vlad called, glancing up as he moved on to another corpse, this one riddled with Cutter’s new shadow blades. The Russian’s expression was frozen somewhere between bliss and greed. “These creatures”—he swept a hand toward the dead—“they carry silver—no measly copper coins. Real silver. And the loot.” He shook his head.

“Already I’ve discovered a Fine Dagger with a +2 to Intelligence, and some Good Quality Light Armor—all much better than anything I’ve seen so far.” Vlad grinned, then faltered, as though realizing he hadn’t waited to divide up the drops, which was a pretty big taboo in gamer circles. “Apologies,” he said, standing. “Please, you and your companion did all the heavy lifting. This”—he gestured toward the remaining corpses—“is yours.”

I hesitated for a second. Getting loot was the best part of playing games like this, but he needed this stuff way more than I did. I grimaced and shook my head. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ve already had more than my fair share of lucky breaks. Why don’t you take this stuff?”

Vlad stared at me long and hard—weighing my words, looking for some trap—then he simply shrugged and set back to work. Clearly, this was a guy who understood the expression don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

It took another couple of minutes to finish going through the dropped items. I used the time to grab a quick bite to eat, earning myself the Well-Fed buff—an essential, considering all of the negative debuffs I still had working against me. Once Vlad was finally done, we moved on, heading ever deeper into these god-awful tunnels.

TWENTY-SEVEN:

Gentleman Georgie

Another hour and a double fistful of mobs later, saw us to an ancient stone doorway, set into the time-worn rock at the end of a broad tunnel. An intricately carved demonic visage protruded from the surface of the door like a cancerous growth, while pulsing runes ran along the edges of the doorframe. For a time, everyone just stood there staring at the unsettling bas-relief. The carving boasted deep-set eyes, meticulously crafted from emerald, cruel lips pulled back from wicked fangs, and curling ram’s horns sprouting from the sides of the demon’s misshapen head. It almost radiated a foul miasma of death and decay.

A bloody handprint marred the creature’s forehead, asking to be touched. To be opened.

I knew I was looking at Serth-Rog, the Daemon Prince of Morsheim, the prime evil hellbent on murdering the world—transforming the grassy plains into rolling deserts, draining the crystalline lakes until they were only barren craters in the ground, and nuking the forests until nothing but burnt husks remained. Those awful green eyes were a dead giveaway. I pulled up my interface map, and—surprise, surprise—a small dot marked the entrance as the Forgotten Temple of Serth-Rog. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind: this was the door to the boss room.

Gentleman Georgie and his crew of top lieutenants were on the other side of that door.

In order to win the help of the Smugglers Guild, all we needed to do was waltz in there, mop up the bad guys, collect whatever loot there was to earn, and hightail it back to Yunnam with our new Alchemic Weaponeer in hand. All simple, in theory. Except, I had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t be quite so easy. No, that awful face staring at me from the door seemed to promise this was going to go badly.

“Well, it’s not going to open itself,” Vlad said from behind me.

I shifted awkwardly, moving from foot to foot, then cleared my throat and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. We just need to get in there and do this.” I faltered for a moment, then turned to face my teammates. “I’ve got a sinking feeling this might not pan out so well. If things look like they’re going to go sideways, I’ll stick behind and cover the retreat. You guys just focus on getting clear, and Vlad”—I jabbed a finger at the Russian—“leave the fighting to us. Your only job here is to get the ingredients you need to complete your quest. We’ll take care of everything else. Everyone got it?”

A round of muted nods followed.

I turned back around, took a few calming breaths, steeling myself for whatever we might find, then inched up next to the door and did what seemed natural: I placed my palm onto the bloody handprint marring the demon’s forehead.

Heat exploded beneath my sweat-slicked palm followed by a flare of iridescent light as the world spun, twirled, and vanished around us. My stomach shot up into my throat as the ground dropped out from under me, and then darkness was whipping past me and gale-force wind beat against me as I fell. The stupid demon door was a port-hub. I’d heard about them on the game wikis—they were unique transport artifacts which allowed a dungeon’s final room to be perfectly tailored to unique players and quests. Port-hubs basically made it possible for an infinite number of potential “Boss Rooms” to exist at the end of any particular location.

It made perfect sense that the Devs would drop one in a popular location like the Plague Tunnels.

Off-key chanting and sooty orange firelight exploded around me as I crashed into rough stone. My knees buckled from the abrupt impact, and a wave of wooziness and vertigo washed through me, but I kept my feet through sheer force of will. I pressed my eyes shut to dispel a bout of nausea, and after a second the feeling fled. Finally, I cracked my eyes and stole a quick glance to my left and right: Cutter was reeling drunkenly from the fall, and Vlad sat on the ground like a crumpled soda can, but they’d both managed to make it.

I quickly turned my attention on the torture chamber before me—a room which reminded me of the dungeon I’d ended up in after first entering V.G.O. The same dungeon where I’d met Cutter and the dying Murk Elf Shaman who’d set me on this whole crazy path.

Hulking iron cages, covered with spots of rust, lined the left wall, housing a handful of prisoners, all of different races. Many bore fresh lacerations and fading scars; all of them looked emaciated and sleep deprived. A series of rudimentary wooden tables lined the far wall, and strapped to those tables were bodies. Corpses, actually, since none of them seemed to be alive. Thick stone columns, pitted and worn from age, held up a vaulted, cathedral-style ceiling, and the walls were absolutely studded with skulls. Cavernous eye sockets stared at us from a thousand—or even ten thousand—bone-white faces. Weighing us. Warning us. Pleading with us.

Turn back now, those dead, empty stares seemed to say. Run before it’s too late.

But it was already too late for us.

We were in too deep and we needed to face Georgie if we wanted to fulfill our mission and win over the smugglers. Besides, we’d already attracted the unwanted eyes of the cultists loitering around the room. There were four thieves sporting creased, black-leather armor and dark cloaks which hid their faces. My eyes flickered past them, noting the gleaming blades tucked into their belts, before moving on to a small group of robe-wearing priests chanting in an alcove at the far side of the room.

A huge circular symbol, all sharp lines and jagged edges, had been painted onto the floor with what looked like blood.

The priests slowly marched around it, eyes fixed on the floor while they waved their hands overhead in a series of elaborate and well-rehearsed gestures: wrists flicking, fingers dancing, hands swaying rhythmically to some unheard melody. Magic—obsidian and angry—swirled around the assembled priests in a cloud; tendrils of greasy power wafted out, caressing the circle like the fingers of a patient lover. This whole scene was new to me, but I’d played enough RPGs to know a summoning ritual when I spotted one.

These guys were no doubt calling up some Lovecraftian horror-show from the darkest regions of Serth-Rog’s realm, Morsheim.

“Cutter,” a voice boomed out, as warm and welcoming as a hot cup of coffee. “It’s so good to see you’ve found your way back into the fold.” One of the hooded thieves shuffled forward, pulling down his cowl to reveal a middle-aged man with wavy black hair, a thin mustache, and an utterly disarming smile. This guy was one part politician, one part suave riverboat gambler. Unlike the others present, he wore a fancy black-and-gold doublet and knee-high leather boots, and had a slim golden rapier at his side. He looked more like a European nobleman than a typical cutthroat.

“I was going to find you,” the man said, swishing forward a few steps, then laying one hand on the hilt of his weapon, “but then you slipped off before we had a chance to speak.”

“Cut the horseshite,” Cutter said, stepping past me as he pulled dual daggers free and gave them a nervous spin. “Everyone here knows you’re not Georgie. You might look like him, but you’re not. Georgie wasn’t what anyone would call a good man, but he’d never get mixed up in something like this—it’d hurt his bottom line too much. Now,” Cutter snarled, a dangerous glint in his eye, “I want to know where the real Georgie is. I want to know what you’ve done with him, and I want to know what this”—he gestured around the room with the gleaming tip of his dagger—“is. What kinda black magic are you about, eh?”

Not--Georgie smiled and placed one hand against his chest, as though offended by the accusation. “Cutter,” he said reproachfully, canting his head to one side, “I can quite assure you, I am the real Georgie. Everything that I was, everything that I am, is all still right up here.” He reached up and tapped at his temple. “We’re all the same,” he said, spinning slowly, waving at the other thieves. “All of your brothers and sisters are still here. We have the same names, the same faces, the same skills. Even the same memories. Why, I remember when you were still a young lad—this was right after your father passed—and I took you in and gave you your first blade. Do you remember what I told you then?”

“The world is a hard place, boy,” Cutter replied slowly, the words barely more than a whisper.

“And the only one you can trust is you,” not-Georgie finished, before winking. “That’s right, boy. I’m still me. Not even black magic can change that. And as to what all this is … Well, this is progress. This is the future. A new order is coming, and I’ll be there to see it ushered in, bright and bold.”

“Bollocks,” Cutter replied, taking another menacing step toward the Cutthroat King. “Don’t forget, Georgie, not so long ago, I was in a cell just like that”—he jerked his head toward one of the cages on the left—“waiting for one of those Black Priests to carve me up. To hollow me out. I’ve seen what goes on in places like this. The people that survived, they weren’t the same, not by a country mile.”

“It is true, not all survive the Remaking,” not-Georgie replied with an unconcerned shrug. “But those that do, are improved a thousand-fold. We’ve been granted strength and powerful new abilities—rewards for becoming thralls of the Dark Master.”

“Is that so?” Cutter said, voice oozing sarcasm. “There’s another saying you were fond of, Georgie. Nothing in this world is free—one way or another, there’s always a price to pay. So what’s the price, eh? Where’s the hook?”

The man grimaced, his face screwing up in annoyance. “The price? An inconsequential thing, lad. Your soul is all. The Remaking rips out that meaningless shard of spirit and replaces it with the essence from one of the long-dead Vogthar. The original inhabitants of these lands, which our Wode ancestors so callously murdered. Their souls are trapped in the eternally frozen tundra of Morsheim with our glorious Lord, Serth-Rog. But with this”—he pulled a black dagger, which radiated cold death, from a sheath at his side—“we can rip the soul from one body, send it on to Morsheim, and then invite a new host in. It sounds costly, but I can assure you, for men like us, it’s hardly a loss. Your soul is already such a withered and pitiful thing, you won’t even feel it pass.”

It was odd that he was spilling the beans like this—it had the ring of a villain monologue and I had to wonder if it was some sort of in-game, scripted event. I glanced back at the priests: their chanting had increased in pitch and intensity, building to a fervent crescendo. To an inevitable climax. Either this was a scripted event … or they were stalling for time.

“You’re a monster,” Cutter said, interrupting my thoughts, “and that means something coming from me. Georgie wouldn’t want to live like this, and I intend to see him put to rest good and proper, just the way he deserves.” Without hesitation, the scrappy thief darted forward, slashing wildly with his blades, a sudden tornado of steel and red-hot fury.

But Gentleman Georgie was awfully quick—before I could even blink, he had his rapier free and was fending off Cutter’s attacks, parrying and feinting, his movements precise and economical. I didn’t know much about sword fighting, but it sure looked like Georgie did.

“Leave this one to me, but get the others,” not-Georgie hollered at his lieutenants, before making a lightning-fast thrust, which Cutter narrowly avoided. “And whatever you do, protect the ritual, we need more time!”

The other thieves broke into action, charging Vlad and me en masse.

“Go get your quest ingredient,” I hissed, grabbing the alchemist by the shoulder, then rudely shoving him toward a series of rickety wooden shelves on the right, loaded down with moldering old books, piles of raw ingredients, and glass test tubes just waiting to be taken. Whatever he was looking for had to be over there. I turned and bolted toward the oncoming wave of leather-clad bodies, warhammer raised in one hand, an Umbra Bolt forming in the other.

TWENTY-EIGHT:

Bloodletting

I lashed out with Umbra Bolt, staggering a beanpole with a pockmarked face and a slim blade. Purple shadow slammed into his chest and clawed its way up his skin and into his eyes. He shrieked, then, in a fit of confusion and rage, he spun and threw himself at a stocky man circling to my right. The two went to the ground in a tangle of limbs, blood flying as blackened steel flashed out. Boy, was I loving that new Umbra Bolt feature. True, the confusion didn’t last for all that long, but it was grade-A for causing distractions.

With the two thieves frantically wrestling on the ground, each fighting for dear life, I spun left just in time to catch an incoming blade on the shaft of my hammer. I parried the strike with a flick of my wrist and shot forward in a blur, dropping my weapon low, then swinging up with a brutal uppercut which smashed into the thief’s chin and sent him sailing, his arms and legs pinwheeling madly. In a single fluid motion, I spun right, smacking away another incoming dagger thrust—courtesy of Pock Mark, who’d finally recovered from my Umbra Bolt—with my bracer.

I offered him a nasty grin as I stepped through and planted an elbow in his neck while simultaneously triggering Black Caress.

Savage Blow was tied to my Blunt Weapon skill, which meant it could only be used in connection with my warhammer, but Black Caress had no such limitations. Any weapon—even a fist or an elbow—could be super-charged with that ability. Violet fire erupted from my forearm, searing the thief’s skin like a hot fire poker, earning me a nice critical hit in the process, while sweet life flowed into me. The man dropped his blade and staggered back a step then two, clutching at his ruined throat, fighting for air while his eyes bulged. I swung my hammer in a wide arc and planted the spiked end directly into his temple, killing him on the spot.

Though this wasn’t the first time I’d killed an NPC, seeing scarlet blood stain the man’s face made me feel ill. Offing undead shamblers and hulking Rat Kings didn’t hold a candle to killing men and women that looked so human, so real—it wasn’t murder, I knew intellectually, but it sort of felt like murder. Still, I couldn’t afford a crisis of conscience right now, so I jerked my weapon free and wheeled around, searching for another enemy.

A second later, a crippling flash of pain brought me to my knees as a dagger blade slipped into my side, wiping out over a quarter of my hit points in a single stroke. The sensation was like having a branding iron shoved into my kidney, then wiggled around. So that’s what it was like to be on the other end of the Backstab. Very unpleasant. I gasped as the blade slipped free—hot blood rolling down my side—but then, before I could even think about acting, the blade plunged down again, this time through my back and directly into my lung. A combat notification flashed as I wheezed for sweet, delicious air:

Debuffs Added

Punctured Lung: You have suffered a punctured lung; Stamina Regeneration reduced by 15% for 5 minutes.

The blade jerked free again, accompanied by another hot wash of blood. I knew he was going to stab me again, but this time I was ready for the move. I heard the whoosh of the blade and pitched forward, dropping flat onto my belly, then rolling onto my back despite the horrendous pain radiating along my spine and ripping at my side. The treacherous Cutthroat—a rather squat Wode, with a haggard face and thinning hair—stumbled forward, caught off guard by my unexpected maneuver.

I exploited the minor opening, jabbing the spiked top of my hammer straight up into his nether bits as I triggered Savage Blow. The man audibly gasped as he fumbled at his crotch—but I followed up with an Umbra Bolt for good measure, blasting his head from his shoulders with a sickening wet rip. Two down, three to go—not counting Georgie or those priests, still crying out their undulating chant in the background. With a heave, I crawled to my knees. I was almost back to my feet when another blade punched into my gut and a nondescript killer materialized in front of me.

Another fifth of my HP vanished right down the drain.

I clutched at the wound with one hand, and was completely unprepared as a second blade slammed into my neck, courtesy of a petite blonde Cutthroat with a puckered white scar running down one cheek. The brutal strike earned her a critical hit and knocked my HP down to a troubling 10 percent. On top of that, more debuff notifications popped up in the corner of my vision:

Debuffs Added

Bloodletting: You have sustained severe slashing damage; Health Regeneration reduced by 15% for 5 minutes.

Lingering Wound: You have sustained severe piercing damage; 1 HP/sec; duration 45 seconds.

Assassin’s Poison: You have been poisoned: 2 HP/sec; duration, 2 minutes or until cured.

Wow, these guys hit fast and hard.

I couldn’t fight them in a straight-up brawl—no way.

Speed and Stealth were my main assets, but these jerks had both of those in spades, plus I was outnumbered. The math was not in my favor, so I triggered Shadow Stride while I still could, and let out a sigh of relief as time ground to a halt. The pair of blades, piercing my body a moment before, simply slipped through me as I stood. I crept over to the far side of the room, taking my time since I had the benefit of added Health Regen while in the Shadowverse, then dropped into Stealth and waited patiently for the clock to run down.

Cutter was on the far side of the expansive room and Vlad was close by, still rooting through the shelves, which meant the coast was clear. As soon as time came lurching back into motion, I cast Umbra Bog on the thieves, then immediately launched Plague Burst, my hands flying through the complex motions while my wily opponents struggled to free themselves from the quagmire of goopy shadow. This time, they were out of luck. The toxic, yellow cloud seeped into the air a few seconds later, dealing massive Shadow Damage, then heaped on added Plague Damage like an underhanded kick to the shins.

The remaining thieves—tough as they might’ve been on offense—were absolute lightweights in the defense department. Plague Burst decimated their ranks like a wildfire in dry grass, and a few added Umbra Bolt spells from afar saw them all into early graves.

“It’s here,” Vlad called, thrusting a glowing vial high into the air, a fierce grin splitting his face. He looked like a kid who’d just won first prize in the science fair. Another lucky break. True, Cutter was still duking it out with Georgie, and I was in pretty pitiful shape, but overall things were really looking up. Since Vlad now had his ultra-rare quest ingredient, all we had to do was polish off Georgie and take out the four occult priests. It wouldn’t be easy, but it might just be doable.

I took a quick glance at Cutter and immediately winced. Our resident Rogue had managed to do some serious damage—the unofficial King of Thieves was now down to 50% Health—but Cutter looked about as terrible as I felt. The poor guy was bleeding out from a myriad of little nicks and cuts, which seemed to cover him from head to toe. He fought on valiantly, but he was dragging his left leg a little, and his right arm, his dominant arm, seemed just a tad slower than it should’ve been. Due, no doubt, to the long gash running across the front of his bicep.

“Just stay out of the way unless everything completely falls apart,” I yelled at Vlad as I sprinted past him, beelining to join the fray against Gentleman Georgie.

I was almost there when a thundercrack of power and a brilliant flash of light ripped through the air and stopped me dead in my tracks. When the light faded, the four priests were on the floor, unmoving, blood pooling around them like crimson halos: the loony idiots had slit their own throats. Meanwhile, the gigantic runic symbol on the floor had morphed into a swirling vortex of dark magic. Looking at that thing was like staring directly into the eye of a black hole. Except black holes were supposed to eat everything, and this one was actually vomiting something out into the world.

A pair of beef-slab arms—each one bigger around than I was—pebbled with arctic-blue skin and covered in wisps of gnarled yellow hair, were dragging a monstrous body into our plane of existence. A malformed head with a gorilla’s flat face and deformed jaws came next, followed by a thickly muscled torso and a pair of giant legs, covered in even more of the coarse yellow fur. I stared on in horror as the creature emerged completely and climbed to its feet, looming over everyone at a whopping fifteen feet tall. The thing was a cross between an arctic polar bear and the legendary Bigfoot.

A tag briefly popped up above its head, which really said everything that needed to be said. [Demonic Snow Yeti]. Yep, that was an apt description, alright.

The creature took one hasty look around the room, surveying the scene with beady black eyes like twin pieces of coal, then threw its head back and roared. The sound was as loud as a train’s whistle and shook the room—a few skulls, so carefully crammed into the walls, broke free and tumbled to the ground. The noise left me trembling in my boots. This was impossible. Absolutely impossible. Cutter was barely hanging on by a thread, I wasn’t much better off, and Vlad was all but worthless to the cause. On top of that, Gentleman Georgie still had some pep in his step and now we had a fifteen-foot-tall Demonic Yeti to fight.

Impossible.

After what felt like an eternity, the Yeti fixed its gaze squarely on me, dropped to all fours, and charged, running with a rolling, simian gait which literally rattled the floors with each and every step. Oh man, I was so screwed. A colossal fist, big as a truck tire, careened toward me with enough force to one-shot me for sure. I dove right, and threw myself flat—letting the blow skim right over the top of me—before frantically barrel-rolling left, over and over again. I narrowly avoided a crushing stomp, which left a crater in the earth, then scrambled back in retreat.

Distance was definitely my friend—

Or so I thought until the monster threw one massive mitt forward, releasing a hail of razor-sharp ice spikes, which looked more than capable of impaling me clean through. I conjured a wavering defensive barrier, which saved my neck, but I still didn’t have a game plan. I stole a quick glance at Cutter—he was holding his own, but he was bleeding fiercely now, and his movements were slowing down by the second. Obviously, Georgie was the King of the Thieves for a good reason.

I dove beneath another onslaught of ice spikes when a lightning bolt of sheer inspiration struck.

What I really needed here was backup, and though Vlad was essentially useless, I had one companion just waiting to be used: my new Void Drake, Devil. Sure, he was still a level higher than me, which meant he might attack me instead of the Demonic Yeti, but at this point that was a risk I was willing to take. “Find something to hide behind!” I yelled at Vlad as I activated my Void Terror ability and summoned my minion from the Shadowverse. There was a pop of sooty smoke and in an eyeblink the monstrous lizard appeared in the middle of the room like a nightmare apparition given life.

Instead of immediately laying into the Yeti, Devil rounded on me—fixing me with a deathly glare as his tar-black lips pulled back in a snarl. I gulped, sure it was going to pounce, then the stupid Yeti smashed a fist right into Devil’s wing joint. The serpent rounded with a screech—completely forgetting me—and launched itself at the fur-covered monster. Devil’s talons ripped at the Yeti’s pebbly skin while his jaws slammed shut around one fur-covered bicep, drawing yellow blood that reeked of sulphur. The Yeti headbutted Devil, biting down on one of the Drake’s membranous wings.

A big part of me really, really, really wanted to watch the fight unfold, but Cutter and Georgie were the priority here. We needed to kill him to complete our end of the quest chain, and after that we could probably split if we really needed to. I downed a Health Regen potion, then triggered Shadow Step, darting across the room and positioning myself behind Georgie, who was frozen with a malicious snarl on his face, poised to drive his rapier straight through Cutter’s chest. Not on my watch, I thought as I disengaged Shadow Stride and laid into Georgie with my hammer, triggering Black Caress and Savage Blow in one massive attack.

My weapon landed like a meteor, blasting into Georgie’s face; the hit spun him around over and over again, before he dropped, his weapon flying free and clattering along the floor. Despite his shoddy physical condition, Cutter didn’t hesitate for a moment. He leapt onto the downed thief and sank both daggers directly into Georgie’s eyes, pinning his head to the floor. The Thief King’s body went rigid in shock, legs and arms hyperextended, and then, after one last final twitch and gurgle, he fell still.

I wanted to stand up and do a celebration dance at our victory, but we had a demon to worry about yet.

“Loot his corpse,” I yelled to Cutter, before wheeling around to see how Devil was faring in his first brawl. After such a hard-fought battle, I was pleasantly surprised to see the Drake was doing incredibly well. True, one of his wings had been torn entirely off, and huge furrows crisscrossed his hide, but he was alive and the Demonic Yeti was very nearly dead. Devil was currently wrapped around the hairy beast like some kind of mythical anaconda, his jaws latched in a death grip around the Yeti’s throat

The conjured Demonic Yeti beat at my pet, pounding at Devil with bone-breaking blows, but the Drake simply refused to let go. He constricted tighter and tighter, jaws sinking deeper into blue flesh. After another second, the Yeti’s attacks lessened then stopped altogether, its eyes taking on the glassy sheen of death. With its work done, I quickly unsummoned my Drake before he could unwind himself from the Yeti’s corpse and come after us—my minion disappeared in a poof of inky smoke just as he’d arrived.

“It is over?” Vlad called out, his head popping up from behind a shelf.

“Yeah,” I said, dropping to the ground, lying on my back as I stared up at the ceiling. I chuckled softly and ran shaky hands through my hair. “Yeah, it’s over,” I said again once my giggling fit passed. I couldn’t believe it—somehow we’d survived. “Alright, let’s loot this place for all it’s worth, find a way to set these prisoners free, then get the hell out of this dump.”

TWENTY-NINE:

Mop Up

After Cutter was patched up, our resident thief kindly picked the locks on the prisoner cells, setting the whole lot of them free, before we turned our attention on the dungeon. We’d really hit pay dirt. First, completing the Imposter Georgie quest chain had earned me a staggering 50,000 points of EXP, which pushed me up to level twenty-nine. Heck, combined with the points I’d scored from killing the thieves and taking out the Yeti, I was already a quarter of the way to thirty. The 5 Stat Points and the extra Proficiency Point were awesome, obviously, but the real victory was that I’d finally pulled even with Devil: I could now summon my minion without fear of him ripping me to shreds.

After seeing his first performance against the Yeti, I consider that a giant win.

And then, there was the loot to consider … All of Georgie’s lieutenants had been pretty high level and their gear reflected it. Most of the items had buffs tailored specifically for Rogue classes—bracers that added additional “Poison Blade” damage, for example, or a set of gloves with +15 to “Lock Picking”—but it was all good stuff, and I took it gladly. We had a whole army of lowbies to equip, after all, so this stuff was going into whatever passed for the Faction Armory. I also turned up a beefy battle-axe with a +5 Strength bonus, which dealt bonus cold damage.

I could probably sell it for a good profit, but for some reason, I couldn’t help but think of Forge—the former Marine from Texas—with his fighting spirit, but pitiful, rusted-out gear.

Strangely, Cutter passed over all the loot save for Gentleman Georgie’s elegant golden rapier, which he slipped into his belt with trembling hands and a look of reverence dancing across his face. He kept muttering, “this is certainly going to change things,” under his breath, but when I pressed him on it, he only shook his head and replied with a cryptic, “all in due time, all in due time.”

Unlike the dead thieves, the Demonic Yeti dropped some custom gear far more suitable for me and Vlad. The aspiring Weaponeer received the Robes of Azure Alchemy, which came with some hefty crafting bonuses and stat bumps. Naturally, he accepted them with stoic grace, but I could tell he was beaming with joy underneath the deadpan exterior. I scored a crown, crafted of worn yellow bone, bound together with gold, and studded with chunks of polished jade: an Ancient Artifact helm with some wickedly good stats, which was absolutely perfect for my character class.

Crown of the Jade Lord

Armor Type: Medium; Bone Helm

Class: Ancient Artifact; Set Item

Base Defense: 41

Primary Effects:

- Vitality Bonus = .5 x Character Level
- Dexterity Bonus = .5 x Character Level
- 15% Resistance to Blunt Trauma Damage

Secondary Set Effects:

- +10 to all Resistances per/set piece worn

- All Spell Costs are reduced by 20% (2 pieces)

- +1 to Class Specific Skills (3 pieces)

The Crown of the Jade Lord is an ancient symbol of authority and power, forged from the bones and soul of Arzokh—one of the last great Dragons of the North.

The headgear was an incredible find—far better than my current Helm of the Owl with its +15% Night Eye boost—but there was something off-putting about it. Some oddity that tickled at the back of my memory, but which I couldn’t quite place my finger on. Plus, it felt a little pretentious and slimy to wear a crown, when I was literally leading a rebellion against a tyrannical king … well, in this case an emperor, but that was really just semantics. Regardless about how I felt, though, good gear was good gear, so I took off my old helm, added it to my bulging pack, and slipped on the new one.

The second I had the thing situated on my brow, a new quest alert popped up:

Quest Alert: The Jade Lord

Congratulations! You’ve found the Ancient Crown of the Jade Lord, the deposed ruler of the Nangkri Dynasty. Speak with the Dark Conclave about the “Downfall” and show them the artifact.

Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret

Quest Difficulty: ?

Success: Speak with the Dark Conclave and show them the crown.

Failure: Lose or sell the Crown of the Jade Lord.

Reward: ?

Accept: Yes/No?

I read over the quest with intense interest, then accepted without hesitation—of course I wanted to learn more about the Downfall and whatever awesome quest came along with it. True, I had bigger things to worry about right now—like building my faction and the coming war against the entire Imperial Army—but I was still a gamer at heart, and the idea of partaking in some awesome adventure with uber-loot as a reward practically gave me shivers. By the time I dismissed the notification, Cutter padded toward me with a slim leather-bound notebook in one hand and a midnight-black dagger in the other.

The book didn’t look like anything too special—certainly no ancient arcane text bursting with secret spells—but that dagger was familiar.

It looked identical to the ceremonial blade Gentleman Georgie had shown us earlier: the one capable of ripping the soul from someone’s body. Cutter held the knife by the pommel with his thumb and forefinger, dangling it out in front of him like it was a dead animal he couldn’t stand to touch. “Think you should probably take a look at this, boss,” he said, thrusting both items toward me, eager to be rid of them. “I worked with Georgie for a long time,” he said offhandedly, “and the man always kept a hidden stash. This stuff was in a secret wall compartment behind the torturer’s rack.”

I reluctantly accepted the dagger, flinching away as the unnaturally cold steel touched my skin and crawled into the flesh beneath. I turned it over in my hand. The weapon had a double-edged blade of black, folded steel and an ornate ebony handle, intricately carved with scenes of torture and brutality: A Wode man being sawed in two. A Murk Elf woman being drawn and quartered. A surly Dwarf facing the headsman’s axe. The pommel, heavy and round, bore the same demonic face as the bas-relief I’d seen on the door leading into this hellhole. Aside from being frigid and sickening to look at, the dagger also felt wrong.

Evil, even.

It was slick, almost oily in my grasp, and reeked faintly of rotten fruit and decaying meat, somehow sickly sweet and pungent all at the same time. It also felt alive. Alive and malevolent, like a deadly diamondback baring venom-slick fangs, waiting to bite. Holding it was like holding death itself. I stowed the dagger in my pack, eager to have it out of my hand, and brought up the item description:

Black Hexblade of Serth-Rog

Weapon Type: Bladed; Dagger

Class: Unique, One-handed

Base Damage: 25

Primary Effects:

- +10 to Strength
- +10 to Dexterity
- +100 pts Cold Damage
- +5% to Critical Hit when Backstabbing

Unique Usable Effect:

- Soul Sacrifice: Activate Soul Sacrifice when an enemy is at Critical Health to suck the soul from their body and send it to the Frozen Realm of Morsheim. (Charge: 1)

- Note 1: Using Soul Sacrifice will permanently destroy this weapon!

- Note 2: If a player does not have an “evil” alignment, Soul Sacrifice causes the player to permanently lose 5 points of Spirit!

- Note 3: If a player does not have an “evil” alignment, Soul Sacrifice activates the Entwined-Fate Debuff, causing the player to die when the victim dies, and respawn in their normal location!

- Note 4: Any Player killed using Soul Sacrifice will become a Spectral Reverent; their respawn point will be changed to Skálaholt, capital of Morsheim, until they can find a way to return to the land of the living!

The Black Blade of Serth-Rog is granted only to the darkest, most bloodthirsty servants of Serth-Rog: the Black Priests of the Hexblade. It is a wicked artifact, forged from the essence of the Dark Lord Himself …

Reading over the description made my blood run cold.

This was a blade that could kill players—maybe not forever, but I had to imagine being trapped as a Spectral Reverent in the realm of Morsheim couldn’t be a good thing. I didn’t know how many of these weapons were floating around Eldgard, but this was definitely a game changer even if the price for using it was awfully steep for anyone without an “evil” alignment. Deeply troubled, I closed out of the description and opened up the little leather-bound journal Cutter had discovered.

It was chock-full of names. Just page after page of names: maybe two hundred total with no other information. I looked up at Cutter, confusion evident on my face.

He pressed his lips into a tight line and shrugged. “I’m not sure either, but ol’ Georgie went through a lot of trouble to hide it. Must need some sort of cypher, but whatever it is, it has to be important.”

I nodded mutely, thumped the book against my palm, and slipped it into my bag along with the Hexblade. Obviously, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but maybe Abby, Otto, or the chief would have some extra insight.

With the room cleared and the prisoners free, we made our way to the end of the short dungeon and discovered a port-stone—the boss room equivalent of a port-door—which dumped us at the entrance to the Plague Tunnels. It would’ve been nice to avoid wading through the stink and muck of the sewers proper, but at least we didn’t need to fight our way back through halls bursting with murderous zombies and nightmarish Rat Kings. Another few minutes of morose backtracking brought us to the Rowanheath entrance and into crisp night air, watched over by a silver moon high above.

Cutter’s friend Neriah was waiting patiently for us at the sewer mouth with a stocky Dwarf, who turned out to be a rep from the Smugglers Guild.

Baxter the Shifty was his name.

A handle like “the Shifty” didn’t exactly inspire my confidence, but Cutter seemed to know and trust him—as far as Cutter trusted anyone. I was eager to get back to Yunnam, so I immediately cornered the surly Dwarf and launched into the details of our upcoming raid. Or at least I tried to. The smuggler shut me down in an instant, first demanding assurances that the situation below had been taken care of, then politely informing me that smugglers didn’t deal directly with outsiders—no matter that I was the leader of the Rebel-aligned faction.

Oh, no.

Smugglers had agreements, he solemnly informed me. They had contracts and middlemen. Smugglers had more important things to do than vet outsiders, so they only dealt with fellow professionals, which apparently meant someone with concrete ties to the unofficial Thieves’ Guild.

Someone like Cutter.

Cutter, of course, gave the man a slick, confident smile and a polite bow, before launching into a brief account of what had happened below, flashing Georgie’s golden rapier to prove the problem had been dealt with. The sword mollified the Dwarf, but Neriah, on the other hand, nearly choked when he saw the thin blade and the glint of gold.

“No, that can’t be? Is that …” Neriah said, trailing off without finishing the question, just staring bug-eyed at the rapier like he’d seen a ghost. “You know what this means?” he asked, stealing a secretive glance in my direction.

“Course I do,” Cutter snapped, a hard edge to his words. “I’m not a new fish, you sod. Georgie was a like a father to me—I know this organization better than anyone. Anyone that’s left alive, anyway,” he finished weakly.

“Cutter, we need to talk about that—” Neriah began.

Cutter silenced him with a curt slash of his hand. “I know, Neriah. I know. But later. We’ve got a lot to do and I can’t afford to get distracted. None of us can. Once we’ve dealt with Rowanheath, we’ll straighten all this out as well, understand?”

Neriah gave him a sidelong glance—a measuring look—then nodded deferentially. “Of course. You know I’ll hold my tongue, but you can’t expect such developments will remain a secret for long,” he finished, shooting a quick look toward Baxter the Shifty. “Now, why don’t we go over here and work things out?”

Cutter clapped me on a shoulder. “Don’t worry, Jack, I know the plan,” he whispered into my ear. “I’ll get these knuckleheads sorted out right as rain.” He strutted forward, slung an arm around Baxter, then pulled the smuggler off into the deep shadows. Neriah trailed behind, his shoulders tight with tension and anxiety.

“Wonder what that was all about?” I mused out loud.

“Who can say?” Vlad replied, sliding up next to me, hands on his hips. “This is a strange world, my friend—it seems like everything is one quest after another. No doubt that sword has triggered some sort of event. This friend of yours, is he an NPC or a real person?” He said NPC slowly and deliberately, as though unused to the term.

“NPC,” I replied in a whisper, trying to make sure Cutter couldn’t possibly overhear me. “But I don’t think you should use that term. From what I’ve been able to find out, they might actually be aware. Not necessarily of the outside world, but maybe aware of themselves and this world. Best to avoid insulting them.”

“Of course,” the man replied thoughtfully, lacing his hands behind his back. “I am a weapons designer—we’ve been using advanced tech in my industry for decades. Smart missiles. Fuzzy control systems for cyber hacking. Advanced Bayesian networks for intelligence analysis and information mapping. What we have done … it is amazing and frightful. At times, I find the line between what is and what isn’t blurry, you understand this?”

“I know how you feel.” I sighed, looking at Cutter, currently hunched over, tracing out operational details with a stick in the dirt. Maybe I’d never know if he was real—at least real in the way I was—but in my mind, he’d ceased being an NPC. He was a friend now, no matter what else he was. “Okay,” I said, turning to our new Alchemic Weaponeer in the making. “We’re sort of on a time crunch, and we need to get back to Yunnam ASAP, so where do you need to go to finish your class quest?”

“It is not far from here,” he replied, gaze distant—clearly, he was looking over his interface map. “I need to bring the ingredients to a local Apothecary. A woman by the name of Reann, who runs the Boiling Cauldron. It shouldn’t take but a minute. I know you are in a great rush, but I would greatly appreciate it if you would accompany me. Since this Yunnam of yours is all the way in the Storme Marshes, it will take me a great deal of time to travel there on foot. Much easier if you can just teleport us there, I think.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said with a rueful grin. “We won’t leave without you.” That was the understatement of the century—there was a ton riding on our boy Vlad, even if he didn’t realize it yet.

By the time Vlad and I were done talking, Cutter was back, and Neriah and Baxter were stealing into the shadows, quickly swallowed by the night. “All set,” Cutter assured me with a tired smile. “The Thieves’ Guild will be in place—they’ll help get our guys in position around the city, and the smugglers are on board, though there’s some serious worry about our multi-legged friends. Still, everything should be fine.”

“Good enough,” I said as we headed off for the Boiling Cauldron.

THIRTY:

Final Preparations

It was a quarter to seven in the morning—the sun just beginning to peek its face up over the trees—when we finally stepped through a shimmering portal and directly into the heart of Yunnam with our newly minted Alchemic Weaponeer in tow. All I wanted was a hot meal, a hot bath, and a full day to sleep and recover, but I knew I’d be lucky to get a nibble and two hours of rest. We had a war to start, after all, and according to my interface, we had just shy of twelve hours to get everything done. There were portable Shadow Cannons to construct. Mercs to deploy. Our ragtag crew of fighters to equip and stage. Not to mention a platoon of spiderkin to wrangle and tame.

I definitely wasn’t going to get much sleep, but I was likely to be dead soon, so I figured I could rest then.

“This is not what I was expecting,” Vlad noted as we hoofed it toward the port pad in the center of town. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he added. “Aside from my starting location, Rowanheath is the only city I’ve ever known, and this …” His words trailed off, a grimace creasing the lines of his face as he surveyed the town, with its strange stilt houses and crude streets. “It is more rustic than I was envisioning. But, as my people say, bez muki net nauki. Adversity is a good teacher.”

Cutter grunted and laughed. “You’re the wackiest bloke I’ve ever met—second only to Jack, here. But keep your head up and you’ll do okay, friend. Probably make us all bloody, filthy rich in the process.”

The line for the port pad was surprisingly empty, so we made it to the Keep in record time and in a matter of minutes were shuffling into the Command Center, which was still bustling with activity. Men and women were running about, some taking orders, others giving them; some scribbled furiously on parchment, while others offered steaming cups of Western Brew Coffee to anyone who needed it. Here in Eldgard, coffee might’ve been expensive as all get-out, but there was nothing better suited to keeping an exhausted workforce on their feet than a good cup of joe. That was science.

I snagged a porcelain mug of the aromatic brew from a passing server, and took a grateful sip. It was scorching hot, but so good I wanted to cry. It tasted like home. Like the real world. Like my shitty apartment and disgusting couch. I pulled the cup away from my lips and sighed.

Both the chief and Abby were in the same seats they’d been in before I left for Rowanheath; they were talking in low tones as they pored over a paper map, marking out troop locations and attack routes. They both looked positively beat: purple bags loitered beneath their eyes, and the lines of their faces seemed to sag beneath the weight of exhaustion. Abby shook her head at some remark, then reached up and gently messaged her temples, before brushing back an unkempt strand of hair. True, sitting in the comfort of command central couldn’t possibly have been as physically wearing as what I’d endured in the Plague Tunnels, but the mental fatigue was undoubtedly worse.

I weaved my way through a knot of people arguing about mine worker shifts, and headed for the command table, practically dragging Vlad behind me. I plopped down into a chair next to Abby with an audible groan, letting the leather draw me in like the comforting arms of an old friend. Oh God, it felt so good to sit. To just sit. To be still, even if only for a second. I took another relaxing sip of coffee; the liquid hit my belly with sweet warmth.

“Jack!” Abby exclaimed, turning bloodshot eyes on me. “Thank god you’re back—how did things go in Rowanheath? Did you get everything sorted out with the Smugglers Guild?”

“It was a close call,” I said, melting further into the chair, “but we fixed things. There was a big side quest with a bunch cultists,” I explained, “but long story short, the smugglers are in place and ready to go. There are some details we’ll need to go over”—I glanced at the chief, remembering my new Jade Lord quest chain—“but it can all wait until later. Tell me what’s happening here.”

She blew out her cheeks and ran a hand through frazzled hair. “To be honest, I feel like everything’s falling apart, Jack. Otto’s leading the mercs to the rendezvous site now, but we’ve had a big hang up with those asshole spiders. Apparently, the Queen will only talk with you, since you’ve apparently proven yourself a ‘worthy adversary’”—she put the term in air quotes and offered me a furious eyeroll—“and then there’s the Shadow Cannons.

“We’ve got tons of engineers working on the schematics, but no one can do what we want. No one. They can improve the design, reduce the build time, increase damage … but portability? Nope.” She slumped forward and dropped her face into her hands. “I feel like a failure, Jack,” she mumbled. “Everything was going so smoothly for a while, and then it’s like someone just started picking at the loose ends. Now, poof, it’s all coming undone and I don’t know how to fix it.”

The chief planted a hand on Abby’s shoulder and gave her a brief, reassuring squeeze. “You have done admirably—you may be a Wode, but you have the heart and commitment of a Dokkalfar, young one. No one could do more than you have done.” He gave her another squeeze, then turned his steely gaze on me. “Is there any other way we can achieve the distraction you want without the cannons?” he asked. “Perhaps we could find enough spellcasters to mimic the effect?”

I blushed sheepishly and felt a wave of guilt surge through me. I should’ve forwarded Sophia’s message to Abby—why hadn’t I thought to let her know? Because I’d been so focused on what I was doing, I hadn’t bothered to think about what was going on here. Jerk move. “We’re going to get those cannons up and operational,” I said, waving Vlad over and gesturing for him to take a seat.

“I’m sorry, Grim Jack,” the chief replied with a shake of his head. “We have tried everything, but it is a thing that cannot be done. We must find another way.”

“It can be done, and this is the guy who can do it.” I hooked a thumb toward Vlad, who’d slipped into a seat across from me. “I’d like to introduce you to our newest faction member, Vlad Nardoir, from Saint Petersburg.”

“I’ve never heard of this Saint Petersburg,” the chief hedged, eyeing our new friend. “And this one is a Hvitalfar. Are you sure we can trust him?”

“We can absolutely trust him. And the important thing is Vlad can change those cannons. I’m sure of it. Just get him those schematics, stand back, and watch him work.”

Abby sat up, eyes squinted as she stared at me then Vlad in turn, suspicion and relief warring for control of her face.

“You’re certain of this?” the chief asked in the same instant Abby blurted out, “Bullshit.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “No bullshit,” I replied, “and yes, I’m very sure he can do it. He’s an Alchemic Weaponeer, and I’ve got it on very good authority”—I thumbed my nose knowingly and mouthed Sophia—“that he can do the deed. He’s one of only a handful of people in all of Eldgard who can, and he just signed up with our faction.” I saw an ember of hope burst to life in Abby’s eyes, while the chief simply flopped back in his chair, thoughtfully stroking his chin.

The gears were clearly cranking away in his head.

“Let us say this is true,” Chief Kolle said after a spell. “We have so little time to accomplish this task. Even if we have every engineer working on this project, there’s no way we can manage the feat in time. We have less than twelve hours to build twelve cannons and get them positioned outside Rowanheath.” He shook his head. “I don’t see how it’s possible.”

I felt a cold chill wash through my belly as shivers raced along my arms and legs. He was right. I’d been so preoccupied about whether we could do it, that I hadn’t even considered how long it would take. This was it then. Despite everything I’d done, everything I’d suffered, we were sunk. Otto was going to be waiting outside Rowanheath with a platoon of mercs and no cannons. We could always push the attack, but by then Carrera would likely be preparing for an attack of his own—not to mention, we’d have to pay the mercs for all that extra time, and those guys didn’t come cheap.

“You oughta just stick ol’ Vlad in that god-awful mine,” Cutter muttered. “The one with all those bastard shadow-beasties.”

“Wait, what?” I said, pinning him in place with a hard stare.

“Those mines,” he said, folding his arms and quirking an eyebrow at me as though it should’ve been completely self-evident. “The time’s all wonky in there, eh? Time moves faster, so you should just have ’em set up shop down in the mines. Might work.”

I bounced up from my seat and pulled the thief into a sudden bear hug, which caught him completely off guard.

“Hey now, no funny business,” he protested, shoving at me half-heartedly. “I’ll shank you in the kidney if you don’t lay off, Jack,” he threatened after another moment. He was probably joking, but it was hard to tell with Cutter sometimes, so I let him go and held him at arm’s length.

“You’re a genius, Cutter. Absolutely brilliant.”

“Bout time you recognized my invaluable support to this little enterprise of ours,” he replied, smug as a cat with a dead mouse.

I chuckled and dropped back into my seat. “What would we do without you?” I asked, giving him an eyeroll.

“Apologies,” Vlad offered tentatively, “but I am very confused. Cannons? Mines? And who is this Sophia? It seems, perhaps, there is something I am missing, yes?”

“Come on, Vladie-Boy,” Cutter said, jerking his head toward the door. “No rest for you, I’m afraid. But no worries, I’ll see you set up right as rain, and I’ll even do my damnedest to try and explain this whole shitestorm in a bit more detail.”

The Russian shot me a questioning should-I-really-go-with-this-guy look.

I nodded at him. “If you need anything, Vlad—anything at all—just let Cutter know. He’s a decent guy.” I eyed the bloody thief. “Sort of,” I amended.

Cutter snorted and escorted a confused-looking Vlad from the room. Well, that was one problem down. “Okay, now what’s this about the Spider Queen?” I asked, already feeling a throbbing headache build behind my eyes. Administrative work was definitely not for me.

Abby carefully reached into her robes and tossed a cloudy orb, which disturbingly resembled a gigantic spider’s eye, onto the table. “One of those nasty creepy-crawlies delivered this earlier in the day,” she explained. “Some sort of communication device. The only problem is, the Queen flatly refuses to deal with anyone except you. She’s a terrifying, infinitely frustrating monster.” She stared daggers at the cloudy orb as though it had somehow personally offended her. “So, if you could kindly give her a call and set things straight, it sure would be appreciated.”

I took another deep sip of coffee, then plucked the orb from the table with a twinge of apprehension. It tingled in my hand—a slight buzz that felt like a building static charge. I focused on the orb for a second, willing it to work, to speak. For a long beat, nothing happened—I just sat there staring at the ball like a complete idiot—but then the tingle intensified and changed until the crystal felt warm in my palm. Almost hot. It began to glow with an opalescent shimmer, and suddenly I could see the Queen sitting on her throne, clad in her humanoid disguise.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say she looked pleased to see me, though it was hard to tell—her proportions and features were all strangely distorted by the viewing orb.

“Troublesome fly,” she buzzed at me with a dip of her head. “I’m pleased to see you back in the world of the living and no worse for the wear. Perhaps even a bit wiser as a result of our last encounter.”

“Queen Lowyth,” I replied, shooting for professional, though her presence—even from a distance—had me on edge. “I understand you’ve been giving my Faction Commander a tough time. She’s fully authorized to conduct all faction business, so anything you have to say to me, you can just as easily say to her.”

“Nonsense, troublesome fly. I am a Queen, I don’t deal with subordinates.” She crossed her legs primly, and carefully folded her talon-tipped hands together.

“Abby is not a subordinate, and this point is nonnegotiable,” I replied flatly. “Look, Lowyth, I’ve had a very long night and I’m too tired to beat around the bush. That sacrificial stunt you pulled, I let it slide, but I’m not going to let you walk all over me again. If you don’t want to deal with Abby, then you can crawl back into your hole and patiently wait for every warrior and traveler in Yunnam to swarm your lair and turn your children into charred barbeque. Do we understand each other?”

I expected the Spider Queen to be angry—to absolutely flip her lid—but instead she offered me a coy, fang-filled smile and dipped her head in acceptance. “I see your strength,” she murmured, the words formulaic and rehearsed. “And any being capable of earning such respect from my worthy adversary, must be a worthy adversary in their own right. Now, I am busy, so speak your need, troublesome fly.”

“Spiderkin troops,” I blurted out, “the ones you promised me. I need thirty of them—the best you’ve got—and they all need to be able to scale walls.”

“Of course,” the Queen replied. “And where should I send my lovely children?” she asked, unperturbed by my request.

“There’s a staging area just outside Yunnam’s Southern Gate. Please have them there by 2 P.M., and make sure they know to stay outside the village proper—I’d hate for them to start a riot with their presence.”

The Queen sneered, but nodded. “Until we speak again,” she hissed. The orb flashed and was plain opaque glass once more.

“Charming lady,” Abby offered, scowling at the lifeless hunk of glass. “We’re definitely going to need to keep an eye on her—I’ve got the feeling she’s a poisoned dagger just waiting for a target.”

“Just so,” the chief replied with dip of his chin. “But for the time being she is a dagger we are wielding. Now”—he paused, lips pursed as he eyed Abby and me in turn—“I think it is time for the two of you to rest. Tonight is going to be very hectic, and you two will need your wits about you if this endeavor is to succeed. So go. Eat. Bathe. Sleep. I can handle things for the time being.”

“But you need sleep, too,” Abby protested, voice boiling with misplaced motherly concern. “You’ve got a big part to play, Chief Kolle. Maybe bigger than us.”

“Nonsense,” he said, smiling sagely and waving away her protest. “I’ll rest yet, but I’m an old man. We need far less sleep than the young, this is a thing everyone knows. Besides, I don’t think I could sleep”—he reached over and picked up a half-full cup of coffee—“not with this miracle tea sprinting through my veins like a wildfire. I will hold down the Keep. Please, go.” He stood, gently pulling Abby to her feet, then dismissed us with a curt shooing gesture.

I, for one, wasn’t going to protest. I waited for Abby to join me, draped my arm around her shoulders, then lurched off toward my master suite and a well-deserved rest.

THIRTY-ONE:

Mount Up

We stood in a thick copse of pine trees, the ground coated in deep shade as the sun stretched red and gold fingers across the horizon. A few minutes before sunset gave way to night. Our time was almost officially up, and I had no doubt that Carrera would ping me soon, asking for my response. Would I turn myself over like a good little war criminal or would he be forced to hunt me down and raze Yunnam to the ground? As I looked at the dirt-smudged, hard-worn faces scattered amongst the trees, I was excited to give him my answer: a giant middle finger in the form of a small army perched within spitting distance of his walls.

This group was just one of four scattered around Rowanheath, all waiting for my signal.

Most of the warriors here with me were hired thugs.

A mercenary squad run by none other than Morgan Sellsword—a Warlock I’d beaten and taken prisoner in Carrera’s restricted zone. To me, there was a certain irony that the very mercenary originally hired to power-level Carrera would now be instrumental in his downfall. My eyes skipped past him and landed on the six Arcane Shadow Cannons manned by a double fistful of our loyal faction members—mostly tanks, but a few engineers capable of operating and repairing the weapons. Those cannons were beautiful things.

Hulking black-metal beasts, on enormous spiked wheels.

I’d never been in the military myself, but I’d seen plenty of heavy artillery growing up near Camp Pendleton, and these babies had a striking resemblance to old-school howitzers. Vlad and our engineer crew had done a truly bang-up job—if I ever saw Sophia again in the flesh, I’d have to give her my sincerest thanks. As impressive as the weapons were, though, I knew they’d never come close to breaching the walls; they just didn’t have they muscle for it. For that, we’d need bulky siege engines, which were too big to port. Still, they’d wreak havoc on troops in the open, and they’d also make for one heck of a distraction.

I mean, I knew they couldn’t breach the walls, but I was betting Carrera didn’t. All he’d see were giant guns blasting cannonballs of shadow magic at his city.

“It’s time,” Abby said, giving my hand a tight squeeze. “You can do this, Jack,” she whispered into my ear before planting a peck on my cheek. “We can do this. It’s a good plan. It’ll work.”

I grinned at her and tried to ignore the quiver in my hands. Yeah, we could do this. Maybe. Possibly.

I picked Morgan Sellsword out from the crowd; his plain brown robes, golden complexion, and gnarled staff—burning with intricate swirls of amber light—made him easy to find. I caught his eye with a quick wave, then gave him a nod, letting him know it was time to get this show on the road for better or worse. The Warlock wheeled around and barked out a few quick commands and suddenly the milling mercs were forming up in loose semicircles, every eye fixed on me and Abby. No pressure or anything.

“Well, this is it,” I said without preamble. “In a few minutes the fighting will start, and hopefully in a few hours’ time, we’ll have done what it took months for the empire to do. We’ll be the proud owners of Rowanheath. This will be the first major blow to the empire—and that’s something we can all be proud of.”

My words seemed to linger in the air, to weigh down on everyone.

“We don’t fight for pride,” Morgan said, breaking the tension. “As long as your gold is good, we’ll fight a host of geriatric grandmothers.” That earned a few lighthearted chuckles from the assembled sellswords. “Hells, for the right price,” he added, “I’ll fight my own grandmother, Gods rest her soul. Your gold is good, so you need not worry about our fighting spirit. Now, what would you have of us?”

“Right,” I said, rubbing my hands together, feeling oddly comforted by his words. These men were professionals, I reminded myself. This is what they did for a living. “Well hopefully,” I continued, “you won’t actually be doing much fighting. The real battle is going to take place in the Keep, high above the city, but you lot are going to draw the bulk of the guards to the wall. Your real job is to make Lord Carrera of Rowanheath think we have a much bigger army than we actually do.

“We’ve got a hundred men for this mission, but we need to make Carrera think we have a thousand. Or ten thousand. The cannons”—I gestured toward the big guns—“will do the bulk of the heavy lifting. Your job is to spread out, look fierce, and protect the cannons if Carrera starts deploying troops. But don’t worry, you won’t be the only focus. We’ve got another squad, exactly like this, on the other side. Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani clan is overseeing them, and once Abby and I leave, he’ll be in charge of both squads. He’s a big, scary Murk Elf Necromancer, so he shouldn’t be hard to miss.”

“Understood,” Morgan said, hands straining against his staff. “We’ll show you we are worth every gold mark spent.”

“And you guys know what you’re doing, right?” I asked, turning on the cannon operators.

“No worries, sir,” a stalky Dwarf replied, his gruff voice sure and steady. “We’ve had time to practice back in the Marshes.” He reached over and patted one of the cannons affectionately. “These babies will shine, believe you me.”

“Alright, then. I think it’s time we’re off,” I said.

With a deep breath, I turned and called up Devil from the Shadowverse. Originally, Abby and I were going to storm the Keep with the spider-riders, but since I was level twenty-nine, we’d made a few alterations to the plan. A blast of sooty smoke filled the air; an eyeblink later, the dark cloud dissipated, revealing the monstrous lizard in all his awesome and horrific glory. Abby flinched, and I could almost feel the mercs and cannon techs recoil on instinct. Not that I could blame them—even I recoiled on seeing the epic beast. Devil was theoretically safe and under my control now, but I hadn’t actually had an opportunity to the test my abilities out.

The black-scaled doom lizard stared at me with its burning purple eyes, but made no visible move to attack. Still, I padded forward slowly and deliberately, not wanting to startle the creature. Carefully, cautiously, I extended one hand, palm out, as I moved. The Void Terror seemed indifferent, so I inched closer and closer. Still, Devil just sat there. His head swayed restlessly from side to side, but he showed no overt sign of hostility. Finally, I reached out and placed trembling fingers on the creature’s scale-covered snout, feeling the warmth of his breath brushing up against my skin.

“Can I ride you?” I asked hesitantly.

The creature regarded me for a tense beat, then snorted, grunted, and dropped his neck in deference, though his eyes burned with a fiery defiance. With a deep gulp, I edged closer and crawled onto his back, straddling him around the base of his neck, just forward of his leathery wings. Suddenly an awareness of Devil blossomed in the back of my head. I could feel him beneath me. I could feel both his anxiety and anger, his hunger and loyalty. Devil was separate from me—our minds only tenuously connected—but we were also one. That awareness in my head was like an extra sense, like a limb I’d just discovered.

A new skill popped up:

Ability: Mount

Eldgard is a vast and wild land, filled with rugged, formidable terrain—jagged mountains, dense forests, treacherous swamps, and expansive waterways—not to mention a myriad of deadly creatures. Having a faithful mount can significantly reduce travel times, while making the hazards of the wild much more manageable. Not to mention, there is no more loyal and stalwart fighter than a battle mount.

Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 1

Cost: None

Effect 1: Mount riding ability unlocked.

Effect 2: +5% to Mount’s Movement Rate, while you are riding.

Effect 3: Ferry (1) additional passenger on your mount (Movement Speed Reduced by 15%).

I grinned, feeling absurdly, illogically happy.

A lot of terrible things had happened to me over the past several weeks—and over the past several months before that, honestly—but being on the back of this Drake, getting ready to soar through the sky like an eagle, was exhilarating. True, I wasn’t so hot with heights, but after facing down, and overcoming, all the horrors V.G.O. had thrown at me so far, this seemed like nothing at all. An absolute cakewalk. I noticed a pair of spikes jutting up from the base of Devil’s neck; they looked oddly like the yoke of an airplane.

I wrapped my sweaty palms around each and focused, willing Devil to stretch out his wings—to my shock, the Drake complied, his leathery appendages unfurling, stretching, the muscles rippling beneath the skin. Wow.

“Come on, Abby,” I said, waving her over with a humongous smile. She came reluctantly, but when Devil seemed to ignore her, treating her as though she were nothing more than a part of the scenery, she grew a bit more confident and scampered up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist. It felt good to have her there, holding me. “Move on two flare blasts,” I called out to Morgan, simultaneously willing Devil to stand. To run. To fly.

We broke into a lumbering gait and, with a tremendous effort, the Drake leapt from the earth, his wings thrusting down, generating huge gusts of air, which flattened out the grass below. In seconds, we were climbing, gaining altitude as the trees and ground dropped away. It was a bit hard to hear with the wind whipping against me, but Abby’s deep-belly laughter still floated to my ears. She was laughing in pure joy, in unadulterated excitement. We were on the verge of war, on the verge of losing everything, but after a moment I found myself cackling like mad, too.

This was awesome.

I pulled up on Devil’s spike horns, and he responded in an instant, his huge wings pumping as we gained altitude.

I nudged us left and suddenly we banked, wheeling around in a loose circle, passing over the eastern forest we’d been in just moments before. It was almost impossible to see our forces through the dense tree cover—especially in the failing light—but they were down there, waiting for the signal to storm the walls and unleash hell in their wake. We banked right, turning back toward Rowanheath, soaring far above the domineering outer wall, until we reached the western side of the city. Unruly pine forests hugged the slopes there as well, and though I couldn’t see anyone below, I knew Chief Kolle was hiding out with thirty extra mercs and six more Arcane Shadow Cannons.

Our Keep raiding party, mounted on spiderkin, were nowhere to be seen—but that was all according to plan. We could never get the spiders past the outer gates, obviously, but the smugglers were apparently very good at what they did. Right now, our forces should already be through a series of secret mountain mines, and scampering through the sewers within Rowanheath proper. Otto and Amara were leading that bunch, and soon, they’d be in position, waiting for the chaos to break loose, before emerging and starting their ascent up the daunting inner wall protecting the Keep.

The sun had almost set now, the pastel pinks, oranges, and golds giving way to the bruised-purple of twilight and the blacks of true night. I pulled back on Devil’s horns and we rose higher still, until I was sure we were only a speck far overhead, before gliding over the city. We rode the currents as I patiently waited for the message I was sure would come—I didn’t know Carrera all that well, but I had a good feeling he wasn’t the kind of guy to skip taunting or threatening an enemy. The PM came one minute after 6 PM, just as the last light faded from the sky, and the sun gave way to the moon’s watery, silver light.

Personal Message:

Your time is up, you cowardly thief. Turn yourself in now, or watch as the full weight of the Empire crushes you and all you love beneath our heel.

—High Commander Carrera

I read the message out loud to Abby, shouting to make myself heard. I should’ve been scared—Carrera was a bad man, one who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me or kill me if he could—but instead I just felt exhilarated. Almost giddy. I dictated a hasty reply message:

Personal Message:

Oh, I’m here. Right outside your gates, in fact. You’ll be seeing me soon enough, though you might regret being such a colossal dickhead.

—Jack

“Okay,” I shouted to Abby as I sent the message. “Let’s light this powder keg.”

THIRTY-TWO:

Light it Up

Abby nodded, her eyes squinted against the biting wind, then thrust out one hand and unleashed a golden fireball, which streaked across the sky like a comet. In the growing darkness of the night, the spell probably looked like a fireworks display or maybe a shooting star, but one thing was for sure: it would be visible from the ground. Abundantly so. The fireball burned for only a few brief seconds, but by the time it died away, Rowanheath was teeming with anxious activity. Fires began to pop up below and screams cut through the night as armored guards rushed around in blind panic.

I smiled. Phase One was underway.

Cutter was down there somewhere, slinking through the warren of streets with his newly minted team of Rogues, Cutthroats, and lowbie Firebrands. Their job wasn’t to fight. No, it was to sow chaos, confusion, and panic, and most importantly to draw attention away from the movement of our troops and cannons. Cutter’s crew had carefully selected targets—guard commanders, high-level Viridian bureaucrats, Imperial-aligned priests and healers—and had spent the last few hours stalking them, waiting to murder them in very public places and in very spectacular ways.

There was a good chance most of those assassins wouldn’t come back alive—they were kamikaze soldiers, willing to die for the cause—but aside from Cutter, they were all players, so they’d respawn in a few hours.

Meanwhile, our Firebrands were setting vendor carts or trash heaps on fire, just to add an extra level of craziness for the city guards and Imperial-aligned players to sort out.

And it was working.

We swooped in low enough to watch the citizens of Rowanheath scramble:

Some tried to douse the growing flames. Others chased black-clad cutthroats through streets thick with people. A few even attempted to revive the victims. Squads of burly city guards swarmed from both the Keep proper and the barracks—located near the main gate—barking out orders as they rudely shoved people aside, trying to puzzle out what exactly was happening and how to stop it. Groups of players were also forming up, finally realizing that something big was going down. But, much to my amusement, those players more often than not blundered into the guard patrols, hurting their cause far more than they were helping.

Beautiful. Just beautiful.

A giant fireball exploded in an alleyway not far below—heat and light billowed up accompanied by a plume of curling smoke. I dropped us down and circled back around. One of our female Firebrands had just torched a silk-lined palanquin. Some nonnamed Viridian official, trapped inside, screamed as the wooden contraption blazed; his cry was both pitiful and reproachful. My stomach curled a little at the sound of someone burning alive. This was a game, I reminded myself, trying to dismiss the unease creeping through me. Besides, there wasn’t any other way.

I pushed my budding guilt away as a squad of lorica-clad sentries rounded the corner, trapping the Firebrand in a dead-end alleyway.

There was nowhere for her to flee. Nowhere to hide. Even from my high vantage, I could see how pale and scared the woman looked, her body shaking as she backpedaled, only to find a stone wall behind her. Instead of backing down, though, or pleading for mercy, she calmed herself and began to march toward the guards forming up at the alley mouth, her chin held high and proud. At ten feet out, she simply stopped, threw both hands forward, and roared out her defiance as she unleashed dual gouts of flame. Thick columns of orange washed over the sentries, scorching armor, setting cloaks ablaze, and charring exposed skin.

It was amazing and simultaneously disturbing to watch.

As powerful as her spells were, however, the guards broke into a charge, fighting against the onslaught of flame like salmon swimming against the river current. In seconds, the fireworks ceased as swords and cruel maces flashed out. I knew from experience that Firebrands could deal out a lot of concentrated damage, but most were classic glass cannons. Blood flew and bones snapped as Imperial weaponry sliced through thin fabric and into unprotected flesh. Our mage didn’t last long, not outnumbered against a bunch of melee tanks.

I willed Devil skyward, eager to put the scene behind me. The Drake arched his neck and pumped his wings, carrying us well away from the action on the streets, before wheeling back
toward the main gate and the wall.

I glanced down. Perfect. So far, everything was going according to plan.

Rowanheath’s citizens were so focused on the unfolding drama inside the walls that next to no one was manning the gate or focusing on the possibility of a frontal assault. “Do it,” I yelled at Abby over one shoulder, my voice barely carrying over the clamor below. A heartbeat later, a pair of fireballs streaked across the star-strewn sky, leaving twin tails of embers burning brightly in their wake. It didn’t take long for our mercs to break away from the tree line, sprinting into the open, while teams of beefy warriors hauled the Shadow Cannons into position.

Although there were only about seventy people, between the mercs and faction members, the wave pouring from both the east and west looked far more impressive: hundreds of fighters, easily. But that was because the vast majority of mercs were Warlocks and Summoners of one variety or another, and all the extra warriors on the field were actually conjured minions: Skeletons. Undead Archers. Minor Elementals. Lesser Demon Lords. In the light of the day, anyone with a working pair of eyes would’ve easily figured out what we’d done, but in the dark of night, with chaos ripping its way through the city, no one would realize we were pulling a fast one.

Not in time to stop it, anyway.

In mere minutes, the twelve cannons had formed up into a staggered line running the length of the wall. At nearly two hundred feet out, there was no way they would have the oomph needed to break through the thick slabs of reinforced stone, but they would certainly get Carrera’s attention.

“Fire,” someone roared below, the voice barely a murmur on the slapping wind. The order carried down the line, repeated over and over again. The Arcane Shadow Cannons, little more than blots of black steel against the darkening landscape, exploded in a cacophony of sound and magic. Orbs—the size of actual wrecking balls and burning with ghostly purple flame—ripped through the dark, screaming their way toward Rowanheath’s outer wall. The barrage of shadowy cannon fire smashed against the stone, splashing unnatural fire over everything in a ten-foot radius of impact.

The wall quivered under the assault. Chunks of rock cracked and tumbled away. The plains grass below began to burn.

This was the first time I’d seen the weapons in action, and I was more than a little impressed. Vlad had delivered big time—I was going to kiss that crazy Russian the next time I saw him.

I leaned into Devil, and brought us sweeping over the city again.

The few guards and warriors unoccupied with Cutter and his crew were now pouring toward the wall. There were also a few travelers, clad in heavy plate mail, tentatively creeping out through the main gate in groups of two or three. These were the glory seekers, hoping to gain favor with Osmark, Carrera, or both, by charging out and bringing the enemy cannons down. They were ballsy, but stupid. The second they cleared the gatehouse, mercenary arrows and devastating spells began to fall like rain.

Though the heavy armor deflected a great number of the shots, there were a lot of arrows to contend with, and before long even those in the bulkiest steel looked like armored porcupines. As for the spells … Well, they didn’t seem troubled by the plate armor at all. Giant javelins of ice ripped through metal and left more than a few warriors limping along, or crawling through the dirt, their legs broken and useless. Most of the severely injured retreated, pulling themselves back toward the gatehouse—only to find someone had lowered the metal portcullis, trapping them outside the city walls.

They’d been given over as arrow fodder.

Another round of cannon fire collided into the wall, showering those cowering below with ghostly shadow flame.

The few warriors who managed to survive the initial onslaught of arrows and magic didn’t last long: they were quickly met by the slicing blades of the undead or the smashing hammers of summoned demon lords. Many of the enemy players dealt powerful blows, often one-shotting the summoned minions, but the sheer weight of numbers simply ground them down. A second later a new PM hit my inbox:

Personal Message:

I don’t know what you hope to accomplish here. This is a waste of your resources and can only end badly for you—I swear to God I will make you suffer for this. I’ll make it my personal mission to see you writhe in pain for the rest of eternity. I don’t know what kind of siege weapons you managed to acquire, but they’ll never penetrate our defenses. Rowanheath was built to stand against legions. It will certainly hold out against your shabby band of rejects, all of whom will be backlisted by the Empire. Now would be a good time to run away, little man, while you still can.

—Carrera

A thunderous BOOM ripped through the night, emphasizing Carrera’s threats.

I dismissed the message and watched in muted horror as enemy guards on top of the wall hauled out gigantic ballistae and unleashed enormous bolts at my troops. The bolts, which looked more like cruise missiles than arrows, punched into the earth with bone-shaking force, before exploding with the raw power of a bomb blast, releasing terrible heat and a geyser of earth and flame high into the air. Anyone too close was thrown clear, scattered like bowling pins. The first wave of ballista bolts took out a half dozen mercs—mostly summoned creatures, but still—and one of our twelve cannons.

That was bad, bad news.

I wasn’t sure how long we could hold out against that kind of firepower—I’d underestimated their defenses. On the plus side, though, Carrera’s forces were definitely focused on holding the wall and mopping up the chaos within the city itself, so they shouldn’t be looking toward the inner wall. Why would they? Our visible forces inside the city were minuscule in number, and no one could scale the wall.

Or so they thought.

“Last round,” I called out to Abby, tapping her on the leg to make sure she heard.

This time three fireballs blazed a trail overhead, cutting through the dark like razor blades made of light. The final signal. If everything had gone well with the smugglers, Otto and Amara would lead our spider-mounted forces out of the sewers, right up the face of the inner wall, and directly into the heart of the Keep itself. From what we’d been able to gather, all we needed to do was capture the Keep’s control room and hold it for half an hour—if we could do that, Rowanheath would be ours. And with it would come all of the city-aligned NPCs, including the roving sentries, those badass ballistae, and the Keep guardians.

Once that happened, we’d throw open the gates, and the mercs outside would pour into the streets and drive every Imperial-aligned player right out the front door. At least, that’s how it was supposed to work in theory. But it would all fall apart if we failed to buy our spider-riders as much time as possible—if they didn’t make it into the Keep, we couldn’t win this battle.

No way.

“Get ready to hit those ballistae!” I shouted.

Abby tapped me on the shoulder, then stuck one hand forward, giving me a thumbs-up.

I banked hard left, spinning us in a tight circle, before dropping Devil into a sharp dive, angling straight for the guards manning the giant weapons on the wall. The sentries below were so laser-focused on the mercs and the cannons, they didn’t see us swoop down like an avenging angel. The second we were in range, Abby lashed out with spurts of flame and balls of fire, which splashed against sentries with brutal force; guards flipped over the wall, falling ass over teakettle to the ground below. I left Abby to her work and homed in on a pair of ballistae.

Those were the real threat. Although I couldn’t take them out on my own, I was riding on the back of a mini-Dragon with a wide array of destructive capabilities.

In my mind’s eye, I recalled the super-heated column of shadow fire Devil had unleashed on me back in the Darkshard Mines. That’s what we needed right now. Dragon’s Fire. I willed the idea toward the new ball of nerves lingering in the back of my head. Fire, I thought, burn them all. We were ten feet out from the first oversized crossbow when Devil threw his jaws wide and let loose a floor-shaking roar as flame, so purple it was almost black, slapped against the ballista and the pair of sentries manning it.

The siege engine—built entirely of wood, string, leather, and bits of steel—didn’t stand a chance, not against the kind of heat and power my pet Drake was throwing around. The wood blackened, twisted, and snapped. String and leather frayed, cracked, and disintegrated. Even the steel smoldered and drooped in the intense heat. The pair of guards didn’t fare any better. One bolted away, arms raised overhead as he screamed and burned, only to trip and tumble from the wall. The other fought against the pain, standing proud and facing us down with an outthrust spear.

Another blast of flame finished him on the spot.

Finally, Devil’s attack ceased and a cooldown bar appeared in the corner of my eye.

Interesting.

So my pet had some limitations of his own. That was too bad, but also understandable from a gaming perspective. A mount like this was already ridiculously powerful, but if he could spew unending gouts of shadow flame, he’d be nearly unstoppable.

The next ballista was almost in range, and these legionaries had certainly noticed our presence. I wasn’t quite sure what to do here, but I knew we needed to put as many of these weapons out of commission as possible. Attack, I sent to Devil, my desperation bleeding through the command.

The Drake responded in a blink.

We dropped from the air, landing on top of the wall, slinking forward with a sinuous grace and unbelievable speed. The creature had somehow co-opted the controls for the time being, so all I could do was sit back, hang on for dear life, and hope things turned out well. We careened into the first sentry head-on; the Drake used its monstrous, spiked skull and its considerable momentum to send the sword-wielding guard cartwheeling through the air like a ragdoll. Devil had paralyzed me with an almost identical attack during our first fight in the mines, so I felt genuine sympathy for the poor guy on the receiving end.

Another guard, this one brandishing a halberd, darted toward us, but Devil lashed out like a cobra, crushing the man’s head with his terrible jaws. The Drake didn’t stop to gloat though; no, he just barreled forward, throwing himself at a third and final guard. I lurched in my seat as Devil’s wings thrust down and we were suddenly airborne again—except now we had another passenger dangling from Devil’s front claws. The guard, a wide-eyed woman, jabbed at Devil’s belly, but she didn’t have the leverage or reach to do much damage. We climbed for a few seconds, before sharply wheeling back toward the wall.

With a bellow of utter rage and contempt, Devil released the hapless guard from his deathly grip. She dropped, shock painted across her face, and slammed into the unmanned ballista with devastating force. Wood snapped, and so did the guard’s back. She stared up at us with vacant eyes, her neck at an impossible angle.

“Look!” Abby yelled in my ear, frantically jabbing a finger toward the Keep.

I reined Devil in, and turned us back toward the domineering fortress looming high above the city. I couldn’t help but grin at what I saw: Spiderkin, of all different sizes and varieties, crept up the inner wall, their hairy legs scuttling along with ease, while their riders clung tightly for dear life, held in place by flimsy strands of silver webbing. Otto and Amara rode at the top of the arachnoid formation, leading the silent charge with their weapons drawn and ready to fight. It was a spectacular sight, and though I was having a fantastic time swooping through the air, a part of me wished I were there with them.

“We’ve got incoming,” Abby yelled again, directing my gaze further up, to the top of the fortress. My grin faltered, faded, and died on my face.

Bulky stone creatures, loping along on all fours, leapt from the Keep’s turrets, plunging toward the ground, then unfurled massive wings and drifted out on strong currents of air. Gargoyles of some sort. Those had to be the Keep’s guardians. Carrera had a whole platoon of them—thirty or forty strong—and though Rowanheath’s regular sentries hadn’t taken note of the spiderkin, those stone-winged freaks were beelining straight for them. The spider-riders were nearly two-thirds of the way up, but the Gargoyles would be on them long before they reached the top.

“Get ready to fight!” I hollered at Abby as I ran one hand over Devil’s scaly neck. “We need to distract those things.”

“Ready whenever you are!” she yelled back, her voice fierce and proud.

THIRTY-THREE:

Dogfight

Devil’s powerful wings pumped frantically as we drove toward the first wave of Gargoyles. At a distance, I hadn’t really appreciated their size, but up close I realized how massive they were. Each was easily the size of a male lion and built along the same lines: slick, streamlined bodies, broad chests, and hulking limbs rippling with stone muscle. Instead of feline faces, however, each had the head of a gigantic eagle—complete with sharp amber eyes and a cruel tearing beak—which perfectly matched the powerful, feathered wings protruding from their backs.

These things were closer to stone Griffins than Gargoyles—not that it really changed anything. At the end of the day, one giant, flying stone monster wasn’t all that different from another giant, flying stone monster.

A group of the Griffins shot directly toward the spider-riders scuttling tirelessly up the face of the wall, but another group, four strong, veered toward us, obviously trying to intercept us before we could interfere. Abby leaned out to the right, her left arm slung around my waist for support, and started lobbing fireball after fireball at the incoming creatures. The guardians scrambled, a few breaking left and right, another diving low, while one lurched up, narrowly avoiding a direct blast to the face.
I pulled us left, then dropped us into a dive, swooping low while angling toward the wall and our exposed spider-riders. Those guys needed cover fire, and we were the only ones that could provide it.

The Griffins were quick and agile in the air, however, and before we could get far, a pair were dropping down on us from above, razor-sharp talons outstretched, eager to tear us to pieces. I jerked Devil right and almost lost my lunch as we flipped into a tight barrel roll—the world temporarily inverting—before leveling out as the diving Griffins swept through the air we’d occupied a moment before. One threat avoided. Unfortunately, another guardian was waiting for us, dead ahead, its beaked maw stretched wide as an angry white light built in its mouth.

Before we could swerve, the creature spewed out a column of fire as bright and blinding as the sun.

Devil, driven by some underlying sense of self-preservation, reacted before I could even think: a column of shadow flame burst from his jaws. The two streams of power—one eye-searing white, the other raven-wing black—collided like a head-on car crash. A massive explosion of swirling light and a thunderclap rocked the air, followed in short order by a tremendous shock wave, which mushroomed out from the impact site. The backlash from the detonation ripped one of the Griffin’s wings off—pieces of debris and hunks of stone spun free as the creature plummeted.

Unfortunately, we were falling too, twirling toward the ground at breakneck speeds while wind furiously slapped against us. Unlike the Griffin, Devil appeared to be uninjured, but that shock wave had been nasty. The Drake fought against our chaotic descent, stretching out his neck and wings, desperately fighting to stop our out-of-control death spiral. Abby had both arms clenched tightly around my chest and I could feel her mouth moving against my back as she whispered silent prayers. We could sure use a little divine help, because Rowanheath was rushing toward us at an ungodly rate.

In my head, I watched a grisly scene of us splattering against the side of a building over and over again. I couldn’t help but envision all of my bones breaking and my guts bursting upon impact. This was going to suck so bad. I pressed my eyes shut, not wanting to watch my death for a second time, while my stomach did backflips and summersaults. But then, against all hope, we began to level out as Devil frantically beat his wings, bringing us out of the deadly fall. I reluctantly cracked my eyes and watched as we skimmed over Rowanheath’s rooftops, only a few feet away from utter disaster.

My heart was pounding in my chest like a jackhammer—I felt like I might still die from fear. But a few quick flaps brought us up to a more comfortable height, and my panic finally started to recede as we raced toward the spider-riders once more.

“Holy shit,” Abby called out to me. “Let’s try not to do that again, okay?”

I flashed her a thumbs-up, my hand still jittering from the rush of adrenaline. “I’ll do my best,” I hollered back.

There were no longer any Griffins pursuing us—presumably, they’d left us for dead—which was good news, but they were now focusing all their attention on our spider-riders. Amara and Otto had almost crested the wall, but the Griffins were giving them nine kinds of hell in the process. They harried our riders with tearing claws or blasted them from the steep stone face with burning-white sunfire. I watched, appalled and horrified, as one of the Griffins ripped a burly, heavily bearded Dwarf from the back of a gray Sword-Slayer and callously hurled him into the air.

The poor traveler tumbled eighty feet at least, and disappeared into the cityscape below. I didn’t see him land, but he was dead without a question.

Still, our riders weren’t going quietly—those with bows or ranged magic attacks unleashed defensive cover fire as the spiders continued their upward crawl.

Conventional arrows often bounced off stony hides, but I saw more than a few explosions of the acid-tipped arrows Amara and Baymor had used when fighting the Darkshard Keep Golems. The acid was highly effective, not only because it dealt a lot of damage, but because a single, well-placed shot could take out a wing and cripple the creature’s ability to fly. Magic also flashed toward the Griffins—balls of golden flame, spears of glacier ice, even a few blasts that looked suspiciously like Umbra Bolts. Michael, the fourteen-year-old Danish kid, who also happened to be a Shadowmancer, was riding with them, so it was certainly possible.

I tore my eyes away from the scene as a pair of Griffins darted toward us, shrieking out their rage before both unleashed brilliant sunfire beams.

We banked hard right, avoiding one column of fiery death, but the other slashed toward us like a chainsaw. With a grimace, I threw out one hand, palm up, and conjured Dark Shield, summoning my defensive barrier. The dome of flickering purple energy burst to life in front of Devil’s outstretched snout; the incoming sunfire beam smashed into the shield like a hammer, and bled through in an instant. Devil’s life bar began to dwindle, dropping by a fifth, then a full quarter before the Griffin’s flame-lance finally guttered and died.

I lowered the shield and pulled us to the right as Abby unleashed a devastating barrage of fireballs from behind me. Each orb of flame was only the size of a ping-pong ball, but there were easily a hundred of them. And they moved fast. A hundred comets streaked toward the guardian like a flock of attacking sparrows, each one taking a tiny bite out of the stone monstrosity. It was death by a thousand paper cuts. The guardian faltered under the onslaught, its wings wobbling and shaking, and then it was crashing toward the earth like a meteor, its wings pockmarked with holes.

The second Griffin dove at us, talons outstretched—we rolled left, and as we did, I fished my warhammer from my belt. We leveled out a second later and I swung my hammer as the creature flew past us, unleashing Savage Blow. I caught the eagle-faced monster square in the beak; stone shattered and exploded outward in a hail of shrapnel. I didn’t know if my attack was good enough to put it down for keeps, but it would certainly take a while to recover from a shot like that. Quickly, I stowed the hammer and urged Devil on toward the wall.

I was relieved to see the first wave of spider-riders, maybe ten or so, had made it to the top and dismounted from their unorthodox mounts. They’d formed up into a tight box, and were firing into the crowd of swooping monstrosities, covering the riders still working their way up. I was a little surprised to see the spiderkin were also actively taking part in the battle—and, more importantly, they were crazy effective. Strings of gauzy webbing whipped through the air like party streamers, snaring winged enemies in mid-flight; once they caught something, the arachnoids would drag down their struggling prey with incredible strength.

One-on-one, the spiders wouldn’t have been a match for the guardians, but they worked together in teams of twos and threes: one deploying silken thread, the others lashing out with deadly fangs and frightening speed to devastating effect.

Meanwhile, Otto and another Risi man—a big beefy fellow with an equally beefy battle-axe—were holding the line against any encroaching Griffins that somehow managed to break free from the spider-webbing. The pair of them fought like a living whirlwind of flesh and steel, hacking at stone limbs, bashing in hooked beaks, obliterating outstretched wings. As we got closer, I couldn’t help but grin: the other Risi was Forge, the former Marine from Texas, and he was wielding the axe I’d scored from the Thieves’ Guild quest. The spider-riders had been recruited from an all-volunteer force—another likely suicide mission—and I was suddenly very glad he’d decided to stick around.

The guy was a beast.

I lost track of the battle as the world around me spun yet again—Devil taking evasive action. We barrel-rolled past a diving Griffin looking to knock us from the air, before finally touching down on a massive stone courtyard in front of the Keep’s main entrance. Somehow, almost impossibly, we’d made it. Against all the odds, we’d made it. And not just me and Abby. True, we’d lost a few riders, but more of the spiderkin were pouring over the top of the wall every second, shedding their riders before leaping into the fray. I couldn’t hold back a surge of hope and fierce pride: we might actually win this thing.

Abby and I slipped from Devil’s back.

After all those twists, turns, dives, and barrel rolls, I was glad to have my feet firmly planted on the earth again. Even though I was no longer riding Devil, that sense of him remained in my head, lingering in the back of my skull. We were connected. Attack, I sent, envisioning the Drake flying overhead, taking pop-shots at the Griffins still thick in the air like flies on a muggy summer day. Devil turned and stared at me, his purple eyes narrowing into fierce slits. They will bleed—the words flashed through my mind, barely more than a mental whisper, but very real. Then, the Drake dipped his serpentine head, a barely-there grin gracing his lips, and launched himself into the air.

I stared after the Drake, momentarily dumbstruck as he waded into the battle, lashing out with his talons and tail, before roasting an inattentive Griffin with a flood of purple flame. There was definitely more to Devil than strictly met the eye.

I put my minion from mind—Devil would just have to take care of himself.

I turned my attention to our fighters, now battling their way, inch by inch and foot by foot, toward the Keep’s main entryway. A Griffin, badly wounded and missing one wing, touched down not five feet away from me—dragged down by the webbing from one of the sleek Poison Darters. The Griffin threw its head back, squealing as it thrashed against the spider silk, but I moved before it could break free. I pulled my hammer out and darted in, laying into the guardian’s temple, triggering Black Caress as I did so.

Inky power flashed out as warmth and life trickled up through the shaft of my weapon and into my body. The hit knocked off a quarter of the creature’s HP, but before I could deliver the killing blow, Forge was by my side, decapitating the creature with his hulking axe. He paused and glanced up at me, a half-mad grin stitched across his face. “Told you I’d have your back,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of one hand. “And thanks for the gift”—he held up the axe—“I’m putting it to good use.”

Then, before I could respond, he lumbered away, charging another downed Griffin with an inarticulate battle cry.

For the next five minutes or so, we lost ourselves to the battle, chopping enemies down in what felt like an endless grind as the rest of our spider-riders scuttled over the top of the wall. Devil soared overhead, providing us with aerial support. Amara danced and twirled through the enemy ranks, lashing out with arrows, lobbing deadly grenades, and hurling conjured spears with deadly efficiency. Abby fought behind a wall of Wode tanks, spewing fire like a living volcano. We’d cleared most of the courtyard when a huge shadow flashed overhead, followed by an eagle’s screeching cry, loud enough to shake the ground and send me reeling.

I looked up, jaw hanging open, as a Griffin three times larger than the rest soared into view and slammed into Devil like a freight train. This creature wasn’t crude, animated stone. No, it was the real deal. A mythical beast of flesh and blood with golden lion’s fur—gleaming in the silver moonlight—and brown eagle wings. Stranger, this Griffin was completely decked out with silver armor. It had a crested helm, protecting its streamlined head and face, and a gleaming chest plate inlaid with blue gems. Swatches of ring-mail were draped along its sides and flanks.

The newcomer’s huge talons ripped through Devil’s scaly hide with scornful ease, spilling out spools of ropy intestine and purple blood. Its hooked beak darted in while Devil struggled, ripping out the Drake’s throat in one vicious stroke. My minion sputtered and faltered, gore raining down as he fought to maintain altitude—a fruitless battle. I watched, shocked, as Devil’s HP plummeted to zero and the creature exploded in a shower of black debris and inky soot.

Devil has perished in battle! Your Void Terror has lost all current EXP and cannot be summoned for (8) hours.

White-hot anger surged through me—that asshole had just killed my pet. My minion. My amazing killing machine. That thing was going to pay, dammit.

The Griffin banked hard right and dropped toward us, which is when I noticed there was a man riding on its back.

He was tall and broad-shouldered with deeply tanned skin, a swath of ebony hair, and rugged good looks. He wore immaculate silver plate armor, tooled in gold and covered with glowing opalescent runes. A massive tower shield clung to his back, poking up over his head. He carried an ornate, jewel-studded sword in one gauntleted hand, and bore the reins for his mythical-beast mount in the other. The guy looked every inch of what a Paladin—or in this case Templar—should look like.

He was noble, regal, heroic. He was the kind of man other men idolized and followed.

In my gut, I knew I’d finally come face-to-face with Aleixo Carrera, former Colombian Drug Lord, current High Commander of the Imperial Inquisitors, and the Faction Leader of the Knights of Holy Light. This was the guy who’d sworn to torture me for eternity. This was the guy who’d pledged to murder everyone I cared about and raze Yunnam to the ground. This was the guy that just murdered Devil. This guy was going to pay.

THIRTY-FOUR:

Boss Battle

Carrera’s Griffin touched down in the courtyard, a huge downdraft kicking up little dust devils and piles of debris. The Griffin calmly folded its sleek wings back, laying them flat against its body as Carrera swung one leg over and dismounted with a practiced, efficient ease. His easy manner told me this certainly wasn’t the first time Carrera had mounted up. He absently patted the Griffin’s feathered flank, crooning at it softly, before dismissing the thing with a faint flick of his wrist. The creature obeyed, wheeling around, then launched itself from the wall, taking wing as it glided toward the outer defenses.

No doubt going down to try and put our cannons out of commission.

Despite being significantly outnumbered, Carrera swaggered forward like a prideful peacock, coming to a halt about ten feet out, his feet planted wide—cocky, arrogant—his over-sized sword leaning against one of his silver pauldrons. He regarded me through squinted eyes, his brow furrowed in displeasure, a half-sneer curling up the lips on one side of his mouth. “So, we finally meet face-to-face, you miserable puta. Me cago en la madre que te parió!” I wasn’t exactly fluent in Spanish, but growing up in San Diego and working as an EMT had taught me enough to know he’d literally just told me, I shit on the mother who gave birth to you.

Obviously, this guy was classy to the bone.

“I’ve been looking forward to this encounter since I first discovered your theft,” Carrera continued, his voice coldly professional. “People, they don’t steal from me—not if they want to live, pendejo, because I always get even. Always. And now, here you are. You’ve saved me the trouble of hunting you down in those miserable swamps. You’ve delivered yourself to me on a silver platter.”

“Abby, Otto, Amara,” I commanded calmly, positioning myself squarely in Carrera’s path. “Get to the Command Center and hold it. Don’t worry about me, I can handle this. Everyone else”—I cast a quick look around—“you make sure they get there, bar the door, then fight off anyone who comes close. That includes you, Spiderkin.”

A round of hairy, dry-rustling legs acknowledged me in reply.

Abby shot me a worried look, her lips pressed into a thin line, but then she nodded. “Love you, Jack,” she called out before bolting for the Keep’s entry, trailing a line of warriors and spiderkin behind her. Otto offered me an approving nod as he hustled past.

“Yes,” Carrera called out as they fled, “run along, la furcia. I’ll deal with this piece of trash, then I will come for you. For all of you.”

A handful of warriors—a leather-clad Archer, a Dwarven Smith leaning on a beefy hammer near as tall as he was, and Forge with his gleaming battle-axe—loitered behind. They spread out behind me in a horseshoe, creating a loose barricade, barring the entryway. “I said go”—I glowered at each of the faction members—“I can handle this.”

“With all due respect,” Forge said, his grip straining around the haft of his weapon, “I think we’ll stay. The three of us”—he swept a hand toward the others—“are all former military, and we don’t leave a man behind. Period. Especially not our leaders. Like I told you before—I’ve got your back. And so do these knuckleheads. Not to mention, if anyone ever needed an ass-beatin’, it’s that shitbird right there.” He offered Carrera a hard, feral smile, which seemed to promise pain and violence.

In theory, I should’ve been angry at them for disobeying my orders, but honestly, I was glad to have both the moral and physical support. I grinned in spite of the circumstances, and turned back toward Carrera, feeling a touch more confident and a little smug to boot. Carrera was tough, no doubt, but I was pretty tough myself, and four on one weren’t good odds. If I were in Carrera’s boots, I would’ve been more than a little nervous.

But as I coolly regarded Carrera, my smugness and optimism slipped away. He definitely should’ve been nervous, but he wasn’t. Not at all. He stood tall, relaxed and unworried about the four warriors blocking his path and apparently unconcerned by the twenty others storming his Keep, frantically seeking out his control room. He was at ease, as though this was just another day in the office for him. Either he was severely overconfident, or he was really, really good. Much better than I was giving him credit for. I was betting on a little from column A and column B, but that didn’t do much to dispel the sudden flutter of panic in my gut.

“These warriors?” Carrera said, nodding toward my group. “They won’t help you. They won’t save you. Not from me. At best, they will momentarily slow me down. So, let us settle this as men. Just you”—he jabbed a finger at me—“and I.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. He expected me to duel him? I snorted and shook my head at the absurdity of the notion.

“You are a coward, perhaps?” Carrera goaded, arching an eyebrow at me. “A toothless puta, too afraid to face me man-to-man? One-on-one?”

I laughed in his face—I just couldn’t help myself—which only seemed to sour his mood further.

“Honor is a joke to you?” he asked, the accusation burning with barely contained hate.

“Nope,” I replied. “I don’t think honor is a joke, and I’m not afraid. I’m just not an idiot. I don’t believe in fair fights because I play to win!” I yelled, darting forward and lashing out with my warhammer, hoping my hangers-on would get the message and jump in.

I’d closed the distance between us in an eyeblink—my movement advantage on clear display—but somehow Carrera already had his sword slicing through the air in retaliation. Unbelievably, his blade clanged against my incoming hammer, stopping my attack cold. A quiver ran up my weapon and into my palms, setting my teeth on edge. Then, with a quick flick of his wrists, Carrera knocked my weapon aside, unbalancing me in the process, before darting in and catching me across the jaw with a wicked elbow.

Wow, he was fast. At least as fast as I was, and he was wearing the heaviest of heavy armor. How the heck did that work?

I shook off the blow as Forge and the stocky Dwarf rushed in like an avalanche of flesh and steel, taking clumsy but powerful swings at the Holy Templar. They fought well together—one going low while the other went high, one circling left while the other moved right—but Carrera was too fast by half. He easily ducked and weaved around a series of wild chops, courtesy of Forge, then absently sidestepped a massive overhand strike from the Dwarf. Carrera bolted left, avoiding a crippling cross-body slice, and golden fire—blindingly bright—exploded along the length of his sword blade.

Then, in a blur of motion, Carrera spun, dropping to a knee as his sword flashed out: the blade sliced cleanly through the Dwarf’s armored belly, almost cutting him in two, spilling a wave of scarlet down his front. The Dwarf stopped, mallet falling from his hands as he stared dumbly at his ruined gut, his face suddenly pale, his brow slick with perspiration. His trembling hands roamed over the terrible gash in disbelief. The Dwarf stumbled back, one step then two, before toppling like a felled tree, his HP gone. Carrera wasn’t done, however. He rose and twirled, deflecting a thrust from Forge, then swatting the beefy Risi away with a wave of golden fire.

Speed was Carrera’s real weapon, so I charged forward and threw out my left hand, unleashing Umbra Bog, hoping to slow him down before he could finish Forge for good.

A fail notification flashed on the edge of my vision:

Umbra Bog Failed! Lord Carrera resists Umbra Bog with the Holy Light Aura ability! Your Shadow-based spell does not affect him!

Well, that was great. And by that point, I was already too close, too committed, to turn back.

So, I lobbed an Umbra Bolt on instinct, but the shadowy ball energy slapped against him and rolled off without any appreciable effect, just like a duck shedding water from its back. The attack didn’t knock off so much as a single hit point. Then, before I knew it, Carrera was on me. Only a second before I’d been on the offensive, and now I was back on my heels as he rained blow after savage blow down on me. Carrera’s sword flicked back and forth—uncannily fast for such a large weapon—attack, slash, parry, reset.

I managed to counter the lightning-quick blows as they came, narrowly deflecting each while carefully backpedaling, working to gain some breathing room. Even with the extra points I’d invested into Constitution, my character wasn’t built to fight like this, and the extended back and forth was quickly burning through my limited supply of Stamina. Carrera feinted left, and I fell for it, awkwardly maneuvering my hammer into a defensive position, only to find Carrera’s sword slashing at my exposed left side. I shot my vambrace up in panic, catching the incoming strike on the spiked gauntlet, which saved my life.

Unfortunately, the move was still costly. And the price? Unbelievable pain. The vambrace saved me from losing the limb completely, but the sheer force of the strike shattered my forearm, and the Holy Fire coating the sword burned my skin even through the protection of my armor. It felt like dipping my arm into a vat of acid. The limb dropped uselessly to my side in murderous agony, completely useless. As though to confirm my assessment, a combat notification popped up:

Debuff Added

Fractured Arm: You cannot use your left arm and cannot cast mage spells requiring hand gestures; duration, 2 minutes.

And there went my Plague Burst ability. I took a few deep breaths, pushing away the throbbing pain as I awkwardly maneuvered my warhammer back into position. I managed to get the weapon up, but I was terribly exposed on my left side, and Carrera seemed to know it. He shifted his stance, dropping his blade low, a frightening gleam in his eye. He was preparing for a kill shot—I could feel it in my bones. I needed to get gone, fast. I offered him a shifty grin and triggered Shadow Stride; an inky cloud swirled around me as time came screeching to an abrupt halt.

I took a few steps back—my breathing labored, my heart thudding, sweat rolling down my face in sheets—when something very unexpected happened. Despite being frozen in time, Carrera began to glow and burn like the rising sun. Light leaked from his skin, his sword, his armor, tendrils of golden power probing at the air. I stared on in bewilderment—in all the times I’d used Shadow Stride, I’d never seen anything like this. Not once. What in the world was happening? I hesitantly backed away a few more steps—confused and supremely nervous—as the light flooding from the Templar expanded, burning with ever-greater intensity. After only seconds, I had to shield my eyes from the glow; looking at him was like staring into the sun at noonday.

Then the world around me shook and trembled; the shadows around me danced and writhed in discomfort at the encroaching light. I took one more tentative step back and as I did, the Shadowverse shattered into a thousand pieces as the glow, bleeding from Carrera, reached out and enveloped me like a gigantic hand. The awful light banished the Night Armor Aura, wrapped around me like a second skin, then rudely dragged me back into reality as time crashed down like a hammer blow. Somehow, impossibly, Carrera had hauled me out of the Shadowverse against my will.

Another notification flashed:

Debuff Added

Revealing Light: The Holy Power of the High Gods illuminates the area, dispelling all Umbra Magic effects; range, 100 meters; duration, 2 minutes.

Carrera began to laugh at me, a deep, guttural howl rising up from his belly. That laugh mocked me, and rejoiced in both my pain and confusion.

“You can’t beat me, pendejo. I’m not a generic Templar, I’m a Light-Bringer. My class is specifically equipped and designed to resist and dispel the power of Shadow-based Dark Templars.” He paused and offered me a cruel sneer. “I’m a Shadowmancer killer.” Then before I could respond—before I could move, run, or conjure some sort of protection—he unleashed a ball of radiant golden energy, which hit me in the chest like an enraged rodeo bull.

My actual armor absorbed some of the shock, but the hit still swatted me into the air like a line drive and dropped me down to twenty percent Health. I smacked against the Keep’s stone wall and slid to a heap on the ground, struggling to breathe. My vision dimmed around the edges, my back screamed out in protest, and my left arm—still broken—seemed to insist I should give up and call it quits for good. I sat there for a moment, hunched in on myself, completely vulnerable while I tried to mentally regroup. How could I possibly defeat a guy designed to nullify my abilities?

Carrera stalked nearer, a smug look of victory painted across his face.

That looked vanished as a devastating barrage of arrows exploded from a pool of nearby shadows, revealing the Ranger I’d forgotten about. The brilliant archer had bided her time, waiting for the perfect moment to launch a surprise attack. Though many of the shots went wide or ricocheted harmlessly off Carrera’s heavy armor, more than a few punched through, lodging themselves in his chest, shoulders, and legs. The Templar cried out in pain and anger, turning away from me, focusing his rage on the Ranger. With a snarl, he spat out an archaic phrase, fulgur sanctorum, and raised one hand high overhead.

The clouds above boiled and churned, before erupting in a violent flash, vomiting a bolt of lightning down on top of the Archer. She scrambled and threw herself into a hasty dive, but it was too little too late. The lightning landed with a crack and a boom, which temporarily blinded me. When the light finally cleared—staining my vision with a purple afterimage—all that remained of the woman was a charred corpse, blackened and twisted beyond recognition.

Her sacrifice hadn’t been for nothing though.

An alert flashed:

Faction Alert:

Congratulations! Your faction, the Crimson Alliance, has captured the Rowanheath Command Center—the Faction Seat of the Knights of Holy Light. If your faction holds the Command Center for (30) minutes, you will control Rowanheath and displace the current ruling faction.

Countdown: 29:59

We’d done it. We’d stalled Carrera long enough for Abby and the others to take the Command Center—now we just needed to keep Carrera from steamrolling over our forces and taking it back. Moreover, the Ranger’s sacrifice had also bought Forge the time he needed to recover.

The hard-charging Risi—blood dripping from his lips, lacerations decorating his face and arms like war medals—lumbered into the fight, slamming himself into Carrera’s gut and pushing him toward the wall like a linebacker driving a training sled. I wasn’t a tactical genius, but I immediately realized what Forge was doing: he was going to take Carrera over the wall. It was clear we didn’t have the raw power or strength to stop the Templar, but no one could survive a two-hundred-foot drop. No one. The pair were only feet away from going over, when Carrera managed to gain his footing, slowing the onslaught just long enough to bring his sword up high and drive it straight down.

Right through Forge’s back.

The blow impaled the warrior clean through and continued all the way into the stone.

Forge sputtered and coughed, grasping at the blade running through him, as if he might somehow be able to pull it free. After a few fruitless seconds, his hands fell away, covered in blood. He stared up at Carrera, eyes already growing glassy and unfocused. “Eat a dick,” he sputtered, flipping the man the bird, before collapsing in a heap as his HP hit zero. Forge hadn’t finished him off, but he’d done two very important things: one, he’d almost pushed him right over the edge of the wall, and two, he’d run down the Revealing Light debuff clock.

I could use Shadow Stride again. With a grin, I triggered the ability, rejoicing as time lurched to a standstill and monochromatic blacks and whites invaded the landscape.

I limped my way over to Carrera, in no real rush. I knew what I had to do, but I wasn’t relishing it, not one bit. I lined up my shot, dropped into a crouch—letting shadow swirl around me as Stealth activated—and slipped free from the Shadowverse, time lurching to catch up. I slammed my warhammer into Carrera’s head, spike first, triggering my new Crush Armor ability, which gave me a 250% attack bonus against opponents in heavy plate armor. Opponents exactly like Carrera. I earned some significant Backstab damage plus a critical hit, which dropped his HP to just above 15%.

The Templar stumbled from the blow, blood cascading freely down the side of his face.

Instead of letting up, though, I launched myself at the drunkenly staggering Carrera, driving my shoulder into his gut as I fished the Black Hexblade of Serth-Rog from a sheath at my belt. Since my hammer strike had dropped him down into the critical health zone, I could now trigger the Soul Sacrifice ability, banishing this jerk to the realm of Serth-Rog. True, it would kill me too, and permanently cost me 5 points of Spirit, which was a heck of a steep price to pay, but Carrera would definitely die. And, more importantly, he’d be stuck wandering around the capital of the underworld as a Spectral Reverent. At least for a while.

As painful and costly as this move would be, there really was no better message I could send to the empire: if you mess with the Crimson Alliance, we will invade your city, take all your stuff, and damn you to the underworld. That would make people think twice before tangling with us. Plus, there was really no one—with perhaps the exception of Osmark himself—who deserved to suffer this kind of fate more than Carrera.

“You shouldn’t have threatened me, and you shouldn’t have killed my pet,” I spat, irrationally mad, as I sunk the Hexblade into Carrera’s stomach, triggering Black Caress and pushing us both over the edge of the wall.

A combat notification popped up in the corner of my eye as his life flowed into me:

Debuffs Added:

Entwined-Fate: You have used the Hexblade and activated the Soul Sacrifice ability—your life has been tied to Traveler Aleixo Carrera. When he dies, you will automatically die and respawn in your normal location!

Spiritual Karma: You have used the Hexblade and activated the Soul Sacrifice ability—you have permanently lost (5) points of Spirit!

“What have you done!” Carrera screamed as we flipped over and over, hurtling toward the earth.

“I won. I hope you enjoy hell,” I whispered just before the ground rushed up to meet me and the lights went out.

THIRTY-FIVE:

Peace Offering

I fell through darkness, arms and legs pinwheeling madly as I flipped and spun, on a crash course with the ground. Except the ground never came—I just kept cutting through the endless black with no bottom in sight. After a few more seconds an image appeared in the emptiness yawning all around me: a lightning bolt cut wildly through the air, charring a female Ranger to a crisp, leaving only a blackened corpse behind … then the image dissolved, replaced by Forge’s death-glazed eyes as Carrera impaled him … The Dwarf came next—his gut split open—followed by an image of Devil exploding in a cloud of sooty smoke.

The images came faster after that. Terrible scenes of men and women dying: Rowanheath Guards, Crimson Alliance Faction members, players, and NPCs. Just one long, grisly slide show of all the brutal carnage I’d seen over the last few hours. Finally, my own end played out on a loop. The Spider Queen ripping open my chest … my head clipping the edge of a building—breaking my neck—before my body splattered on a cobblestone street … Spider Queen, Neck Break, Spider Queen, Neck Break. Finally, I pressed my eyes shut, unwilling to watch anymore.

When I finally opened my eyes again, the expansive black was gone, replaced instead by an endless void of white. And suddenly, I was no longer falling. Featureless, white linoleum stretched out in every direction like an endless ocean.

“The mind has a tough time dealing with death,” a man said from behind me, his voice smooth, suave, and somehow familiar. “There were problems in the early test version—dying in Viridian Gate was too traumatic for many players. Several became …” There was a thoughtful pause. “Unhinged,” the voice finally continued, “by experiencing death so frequently.”

I turned slowly, and found a man lounging in a padded leather chair as creamy white as the landscape around us. He was a human, Imperial if I had to guess, but instead of a toga, he wore a pair of IRL slacks, a black turtleneck, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

“We tried to fix it,” he continued idly, “the ill-effects of dying, that is, but like so many other things, there just wasn’t time to get it right. To get it perfect.” He leaned back and sighed, crossing his legs and tenting his fingers as he carefully cataloged every detail about me.

“You’re Robert Osmark,” I blurted out, finally placing the voice. His had been the last real human voice I’d heard before uploading into V.G.O.

“Exactly right,” he said with a disarming grin. “And you are Jack Mitchel. A thirty-two-year-old from San Diego, California. Worked as an EMT, if I have my facts right. Please, won’t you take a seat?” he asked, sweeping a hand out. Suddenly a second chair, identical to the one Osmark occupied, appeared next to me, materializing from the air.

“I think I’ll stand,” I replied, edging away from the chair.

“Suit yourself,” he said with an unconcerned shrug.

“What is this place?” I asked, spinning in a slow circle, boots clacking against a dull white floor, the sound dying a few feet out. “It looks like the loading screen.”

“Exactly right again,” he replied. “This is the loading platform. I called in a personal favor to Enyo, one of the in-game Overminds, to arrange this little meeting. I feel we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and that maybe you think some things about me which aren’t necessarily true. I’d like to set the record straight, is all.”

I rounded on him, eyes narrowed, anger boiling up. “You want to set the record straight? You abused and manipulated this system to turn yourself into a king on the day the world ended. I think I know everything I need to. Now, tell me what happened back in Rowanheath.”

He uncrossed his legs. “Everything is fine. Your friend—and my former employee—Abby is alive and well. And without Carrera around to rally the troops, the Keep fell, the main gates opened wide, and your mercenary army flooded the streets, just as you planned. It’s been about”—he paused, canting one wrist and glancing at a stylish watch—“oh, about four hours since you threw yourself from the top of a medieval skyscraper. There are still a few isolated pockets of Imperial resistance, but by the time you respawn, the town guards will have that all sorted out.

“It was a big win for you, and a bold play all around,” he continued. “Very impressive. Naturally, the wikis are exploding and no one wants to talk about anything other than Grim Jack and the Crimson Alliance. How you managed to invade and capture the most well-fortified Imperial city in the South in a matter of hours. Everyone is in an absolute tizzy, as you might expect. The real talking point, though, is what you did to Carrera. Not only did you steal his city, you seemed to kill him. Now, we both know that’s not true—the Hexblade is powerful but not that powerful—but the existence of the Hexblades are still only half-whispered rumors on the forums. Very few people know the truth. Now, with all of that out of the way, maybe we can get down to business?”

“What do you want?” I hedged.

“I already told you, Jack. I want to set the record straight. I get the sense that you think I’m some sort of evil monster. A would-be tin-pot dictator, hellbent on global domination.”

“Aren’t you?” I replied, jaw clenched in anger.

He frowned at me and cocked a don’t-be-childish eyebrow. “Not at all, Jack. I’m an innovator, an entrepreneur, and a businessman at heart. Besides, you make me out to be a tyrant in your head, but don’t forget you owe me your life. Everyone in V.G.O. does. All of this”—he swept a hand around—“only exists because I made it. Because I had the fortitude and the determination to accomplish the impossible and create something the world had never seen the likes of before. You survived an extinction-level cataclysm because of my hard work, Jack. This is my world, funded and built with my money. Why shouldn’t I rule it?”

“The inventor of penicillin saved a lot of lives, too,” I shot back, “but he didn’t demand to be crowned king of the world. Besides, you’ve sold everyone out to thugs like Carrera.”

He grimaced. “You think I like working with people like him?” He shook his head. “No. But here’s the truth, people like him also played a very significant role in saving your life. The bigwigs—the political movers and shakers, the other titans of industry—they’re not here in V.G.O., Jack. They wouldn’t risk the possibility of dying during the transition process. Those people are nice and safe inside luxury fallout shelters, riding out the end of the world in style and pizzazz. They didn’t care about saving regular people, they were concerned only with themselves and their own political power.

“But I cared, Jack. I cared enough to do something about it. But in order to get this operation off the ground and functional, I needed help: money, resources, manpower. So, I turned to the people that could give me what I needed. People like Carrera. I did what I had to do, nothing more and nothing less. And what I said in my Universal Alert is true. Right now, we need strong leadership more than ever. We’re weathering a crisis unlike anything anyone has ever seen, and I intend to see all of us into prosperity.”

“Maybe that’s true,” I replied, “but you can’t just declare yourself emperor over the world. It isn’t right—”

“Oh,” he interjected, “and what exactly would you replace it with. Democracy? A constitutional republic?”

“Maybe,” I said, unsure and feeling supremely out of my depth.

He snorted, laughed, shook his head.

“We have people from all over the world. You may not realize this, but Osmark Technologies set up free digitization stations in seventy-six different countries. Three point two million people made the transition, Jack. Most of our players are from America and Europe, but we also have players from Saudi Arabia, from the UAE, a significant number from China. Those places have never had democracy; players from countries like that wouldn’t know what to do with it. Many wouldn’t want Western democracy even if you offered it to them on a silver platter. And there are other factors to consider: do you honestly think a nearly invincible, level two hundred warrior is going to listen to the opinion of a level ten miner? Not likely.

“Besides, in the end, it’s all the same. One big con game. That’s what you, and the rest of the plebs out there, don’t understand. Politics is a shell game, played on an epic scale. This—what you’re witnessing in V.G.O.?—is exactly what it’s like out there. Or, at least, what it was like before the asteroid. You’ve just had a chance to peek into the factory and seen how the sausage is made, but trust me, multimillionaires and billionaires, they run your country. They run the whole world. They offer the illusion of choice and freedom, but when you distill it all down, an illusion is all it is. We’re just stripping away the façade.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t a political scientist or an intellectual scholar. “So what is this, some sort of sales pitch?” I finally asked. “Some sort of peace offering?”

“Yes and no,” he said, unfolding his hands and picking at an imaginary piece of lint on his slacks. “It is a sales pitch, but not a peace offering. You see, I don’t want you to join the empire, but I have no desire to see you killed or your faction destroyed. In fact, just the opposite. I’ve even arranged for a few of the remaining Faction Seals to find their way into other Rebel-aligned hands. Not too many, of course—I want to keep the upper hand—but a few.”

I squinted at him and rubbed at my jaw. What he was saying didn’t make any sense. None at all. “But in your Universal Message, you expressly said anyone who joined the Rebellion would be punished. So why would you want me to succeed?”

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. “Because war is good for humanity and it’s good for internal stability. I’ll freely admit that I don’t have a very elevated view of humanity as a whole. We are petty, contentious, and always looking to grab more power. Humans do not thrive in Utopian paradise—our nature won’t allow for it. We need enemies to fight, and when there isn’t an external enemy, we turn into cannibals and attack ourselves.

“I’ve had to surround myself with more than a few unsavory people, and without a threat to focus on, those people will begin to scheme, and they’ll turn their sights on me. Moreover, if there’s a visible, oppositional movement, then all the dissidents and malcontents in Eldgard will leave my ranks in peace and join you. You’ll draw them off like dross, and I won’t constantly need to police my people. It’s a win, win. Besides, the game won’t allow for anything else. I assume you’ve met Sophia?”

I nodded.

“I figured. She and Enyo are ying and yang, order and chaos, Imperial and Rebel. They will fight to maintain the balance—which is why they recruited us in the first place—so I’m simply giving them what they want.” He shrugged, wiggled his nose, then absently reached up and readjusted his glasses. “It’s easier for everyone that way.”

“Wait, so let me see if I have this all straight,” I said slowly, tasting the words as though I couldn’t quite believe what I was saying. “Since Sophia and Enyo require a Rebellion to exist, you want to use it as a rallying point, to keep all of the bloodthirsty people you recruited in check.”

“Got it in one,” he replied, pointing at me with a finger gun. “Taking over Rowanheath was genius work, and all of my backstabbing allies will be so worried about what you might do next that it will force them to work together, which is good for everyone. Unity is always best, when possible. So, I’ll rattle my saber, make some threats, maybe even send a few token forces to harass you and yours, but mostly, I’ll leave you alone. You can be the looming threat, while I work to bring order to the chaos.”

There was a certain cold, clinical logic to what he was proposing, but it was also sort of appalling. “Maybe your intentions are good,” I said after a time, “but I’m still going to stop you. I am grateful for what you’ve done, but that doesn’t give you the right to take away people’s freedoms. If I have to live here forever, I’m not going to let you turn it into a nightmare.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said with a solemn nod. “But a word of caution before you pursue any irrational course of action. I am only interested in a perceived threat, not an actual one. The second you cross that line, I will use all of my power to end you, and then I’ll find a new puppet to install. One who will be more pliable. I don’t say that with malice—you’re competent and creative, both traits I admire—but I will do what I must. Just think on it,” he said, before raising his hand and waving me a brief goodbye.

The floor promptly dropped out from beneath me, and I found myself tumbling back through the dark, down into my body for respawn.

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

If you enjoyed reading about Jack, Cutter, Abby and the rest of the gang in Viridian Gate Online and want to stay in the loop about the latest book releases, awesomesauce promotional deals, and upcoming book giveaways be sure to subscribe to my Mailing List Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.

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About the Author

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thailand. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

Dedication

For my kids, Lou-Bear and Sam-Boy: your goofy, smiling faces keep me going, day in and day out. I love you kiddos with my whole heart.

Special Thanks

I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, daughter, Lucy, and son, Samuel. A special thanks to my parents, Greg and Lori. A quick shout out to my brother Aron and his whole brood—Eve, Brook, Grace, and Collin. Brit, probably you’ll never read this, but I love you too. Here’s to the folks of Team Hunter, my awesome Alpha and Beta readers who helped make this book both possible and good:

Dan Goodale, , eden Hudson, Heather Copeman, Megan Meyers, Amber McKee, Noah Sturdevant, Mark Robbins, and Bob “Gunslinger” Singer. They read the messy, early drafts so that no one else had to; thanks guys and gals. Another big thanks goes to my ironically-hipster writing buddies, Amanda Robinson, Kelsi Martin, Brian Howard, and Meagan—the best sounding board on the planet. And I can’t possibly forget all of the fantastic readers and writers hanging out at all the various litRPG groups out there. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Tamara Blain who, as always, rocked this book (if you need editing, go to her, she’s seriously awesome: www.acloserlookediting.com/).

—James A. Hunter, February 2017

Copyright

Viridian Gate Online: Crimson Alliance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by James A. Hunter and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

JamesAHunter@outlook.com